


bigger than these bones

by somehowunbroken



Series: sleep tight [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Demons, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Magical Realism, Mystery, POV Multiple, Supernatural Elements, Teamwork, Temporary Character Death, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-17 21:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 75,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12374562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somehowunbroken/pseuds/somehowunbroken
Summary: Puck is back.Someonelet Puck out, and Connor and his team are not going to let this happen again.





	1. March: Puck

**Author's Note:**

> HERE WE ARE. the finale!
> 
> this story will be five parts plus a short epilogue. the first four parts are completely finished, the fifth is about 1/3 done, and the epilogue is outlined. i'm going to post one part a week until it's done, so! prepare for this to drag out for a bit.
> 
>  **content note:** sidney crosby is in this fic. i'm not... super thrilled about that, honestly, given everything that's gone down with him and the pens, but by the time he showed his true colors, this story was 4/5 done and he's kind of integral to how it goes down. he is a background character and we never get his POV, but there is no way to make the story i had planned work without him. i understand if this makes people not want to read this fic; please take care of yourselves.  <3
> 
> my thanks, as always, for ari and S. and J. for their help, encouragement, alpha and beta reading, and general yelling in my direction.
> 
> title from halsey's "control."

There is darkness, and darkness, and darkness.

There could be light, but light requires energy; without a source of energy, when it had been so plentiful for so long, creating light does not seem worth it. It is already starting to feel too small, too tight, because holding onto infinity when the available energy is no longer limitless is an exercise in futility and waste.

There is no chance for escape; the humans had been a surprise, a shock, a devastation born of complacency. They had been good, too, efficient and meticulous, and now there is no more energy, no more light, no more freedom.

Mistakes happen. This one was unexpected, and the consequences are dire, but mistakes are sometimes the best teachers, and there _is_ a lesson here. It is too bad that it will not be applicable without an impossible escape, but there is a lesson nonetheless, and it will be remembered.

There is no time in this sense of reality; time is a pointless construction when a limitless being is trapped in a limited environment. There are too many variations, too many different ways of marking time, and there is no reason to count eternities when they keep coming, no matter how large or small they end up being. It is because of this that when there is a crack, a break, it seems like it has been forever, or possibly no time at all.

"Hello?" the human asks, stepping into the space and flicking his hand at the hole in the universe. It shrivels and disappears too quickly to do anything about it, with it, but the human—the human is new, interesting. Possibly the human can be influenced, convinced.

The human looks around, then mutters something, and suddenly there is light. He does not look surprised when his eyes finally settle. He steps forward, too small, far too confident, dressed as humans do when their hope is to impress.

"My name is Gary Bettman," the human says, voice shrill, grating. "I'm here to make a deal with you."

The words take a moment to register, but when they do... oh, when they do.

Puck steps out from the shadows that Bettman had not quite been able to banish, not completely, and smiles. Bettman does not flinch, does not react at all, and Puck's smile widens at that. "I am listening."

Mistakes happen, but impossibilities… perhaps some are less impossible than they seem.


	2. March: Connor

It's no secret that Connor's close to some of the guys from his draft year. Dylan and Mitch are the obvious examples, but he keeps in touch with a bunch of the other guys from the O, TK and Crouser and a bunch of Otters, past and present. He and Eichel aren't friends, which means he doesn't really keep in touch with Noah Hanifin, because loyalties are what they are. It's why he's so surprised when his phone rings early in March and Noah's face pops up on his screen.

"Hi?" Connor answers a little cautiously. He's heard through the Dylan-and-Mitch grapevine that Noah's convinced there's a demon loose, and that's reason enough for concern in Connor's book.

"Davo," Noah sighs. "Look, we just got out of Denver."

Connor blinks and sits on his sofa. "Did you find something there?"

Noah barks out a laugh. "Yeah, uh. You could say that."

"Tell me," Connor says, curling his fingers around his phone. "Was your friend right? Is it another demon?"

"Not exactly," Noah hedges. "It's the same demon, Davo. It's the Edmonton one."

Connor sucks in a sharp breath, glad he's already sitting. "It's—are you _sure_?"

"I haven't seen it or anything," Noah says, "but yeah, man. It got out."

Connor's mind is racing, trying to piece together everything he knows, everything he can remember about what they'd done last year, and he keeps coming to the same answer. "No," he says firmly. "If it's—if it really is Puck, then it didn't get out. Someone had to _let_ it out."

"Uh," Noah says. Whatever he was expecting Connor to say, it wasn't that. "Are _you_ sure?"

"Ask Marns or Stromer," Connor says. "They can explain what actually happened, but yeah. We sealed it in its universe thing and then kicked the universe out of our universe. It couldn't just escape."

"That changes shit," Noah mutters. "That's… that's actually a lot worse, I think."

"Yeah," Connor agrees. He's staring at the coffee table that Ryan had insisted they needed; it mostly collects dust and occasionally serves as extra seating, and there's a weird, curved scratch along the top from an incident Connor wasn't present for. He fixates on it now, a little, and takes a deep breath. "Thanks for letting me know, Hanny. We'll… I guess we'll figure it out from here."

"You wanna call Stromer and Marns, or should I?"

"I will," Connor says instantly. "I can have them call you later if you want."

"I'll text Marns," Noah says. "Keep me in the loop, okay? You don't need to do all this shit by yourself this time."

"Will do," Connor promises before hanging up.

He has the feeling, sudden and sure, that they're going to need all the help they can find.

-0-

Ryan's quiet for a long time when Connor SOS-texts him to bring Jordan with him when he comes back from the gym as well as enough garlic shrimp salad to feed them all, then tells them what Noah had said.

"I don't want to believe this," he finally says.

Jordan lets out a pained, cracked laugh. "Yeah, you're not the only one."

"It won't happen again," Connor says firmly. It's not something he can actually promise; Jordan got Taylor back and then lost him almost immediately to a trade that none of them had seen coming, and Connor knows that they've been working on figuring out how to fill in all of the holes left between them throughout the season. He can't imagine what Jordan's feeling right now, knowing that the thing that stole him and Taylor from each other is back in the world, but he'll do everything he can to keep Jordan out of the line of fire.

Jordan just smiles at him crookedly and shrugs, and Connor can feel the worlds of hurt in what he isn't saying.

"Okay," Ryan says after a quiet minute. "What's the game plan here?"

"I don't know," Connor says helplessly. "It's not like we can just pause our seasons and go do it again. I don't even know if it would _work_ again."

"We need to do something else this time," Jordan says immediately. "This can't happen again. We need to do something more permanent."

"I agree," Ryan says. "With both of you. We can't do anything right this second, and we need to figure out how to actually get rid of Puck this time, something better than just sealing it up and hoping."

"We need to," Jordan starts, but Connor cuts him off.

"Can we Skype Dylan and Mitch into this?" he asks. "I haven't—I called you guys first, but I feel like this is something that everyone should be a part of. More minds, right?"

"Go for it," Ryan says, and Jordan nods.

It takes a little while to get them coordinated; Connor's just glad that it's one of those miraculous days where nobody's playing, so they _can_ all talk. It doesn't take Connor long to fill them in, and when he's done, Dylan sighs. "Well, fuck everything, am I right?"

"We need to figure out who let it out," Jordan says. Ryan nods and pulls his phone out; Connor's pretty sure he's taking notes. "I don't know that it has to be our first priority, but it needs to be on the list."

"No, definitely," Mitch says. "It's someone in the hockey world. Has to be."

"Otherwise it doesn't make sense that it's Puck," Dylan goes on. Sometimes Connor thinks he's used to their mind-meld, but the rest of the time he admits to himself that he's really, really not. "Someone had to know that it was out there somewhere, know how to summon it, and know that it would be the perfect thing to put in a rink."

"Why the Avs?" Ryan asks, still typing on his phone. "Obviously whoever did it picked them. Is this another revenge thing, or is this something else?"

There's quiet for a moment as they all mull it over, and then Jordan shakes his head a little. "We have no idea how it ended up in Edmonton in the first place. We're assuming it was a revenge thing, but we don't actually know that."

"So, correct me if I'm counting wrong here," Dylan says, "but our to-do list includes solving a thirty-year-old demon mystery, solving a one-ish-year-old demon mystery, and doing another demon banishing."

"We need to rethink the banishing thing," Connor says. "We banished it last time, and now it's back. We have to figure out something that's gonna stick."

"Okay, amend that last one: we have to figure out how to kill a demon, and we then we have to actually kill a demon," Dylan replies. "Cool. That's _way_ easier."

"We don't have to figure it out totally on our own," Ryan says, looking up from his phone. "We all have contacts around the League that we can call." He hesitates a little before quirking his mouth into something approaching a smile. "Crosby actually told me to call him if I ever needed magical help."

"What?" Jordan yelps. "When? Why didn't you ask him to help us out in the first place?"

Ryan touches his fingers to his throat, and Connor shivers a little. He knows what Ryan's about to say, even though he's never heard the part about Ryan getting Crosby's number. "After Yak's draft," Ryan says. "I wasn't exactly in a rush to tell anyone else about what was going on around here at that point."

Jordan winces. "Uh. Yeah, okay."

"So Crosby," Connor says. "I can ask Hanny who in Denver he knows, so we can have someone who's actually there in on this. I know Mack from the World Cup, if nothing else."

"My team's useless when it comes to this," Mitch volunteers. "I mean, unless we need someone else to be totally blank again. Toronto's like a magnet for blanks."

"What is it with first overall picks and being blank?" Dylan wonders, then snickers. "No offense, Nuge."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I'm so special," he drawls. "Just like Crosby. What terrible company I'm in."

"Yeah, poor you," Dylan agrees. "There are a couple guys here I can ask if we need extra backup, but nobody who really stands out."

"I'll tell Taylor," Jordan says kind of quietly. Connor almost wants to kick himself; Taylor should have been a part of this, probably. It's hard knowing what in Edmonton is still Taylor's and what's just adding pain onto the memory of the trade.

"Okay," Ryan says, something gentle in his voice. "I think we can hold off on Crosby until we know a little more. Once we know what we need, then we can call in the big guns."

"Good plan," Connor says, nodding. "Anyone have anything else to add?"

"I don't think we should tell a bunch of people," Mitch says slowly. "At least not right away."

"What?" Jordan asks, blinking a little. "Why?"

"People we trust, sure," Mitch adds. "But we have no idea who let this thing out. If the wrong person finds out we know..."

"Yikes," Ryan comments after a long pause. It works to break the mood, at least, and Connor shoots him a grateful smile. "Anything else, Mr. Cheer?"

"Not right now," Mitch says. "Other than that we should look into pressing charges against whoever's responsible for all of this."

Dylan snorts. "Bettman's a lawyer," he says. "If we can get enough proof, I bet he'd drool over the chance to sue someone's ass."

"Okay, so we're gonna see what we can find out, and nobody's gonna do anything stupid," Connor says. "And we'll fix it over the summer. Right?"

"Right," Ryan confirms. "Extra right on that 'nothing stupid' part." He glances quickly at Jordan, who is resolutely not looking at him.

"I mean, we're hockey players," Jordan says solemnly. "What kind of stupid shit could we even get up to?"

To their credit, Connor thinks, nobody laughs for almost three full seconds.


	3. March: Jordan

Jordan has the wild thought, as they're touching down in Denver, that he should try to get himself scratched from the game. He brushes it away almost immediately, but he can't quite forget about it.

He and Taylor are… not doing great, not exactly, but that would be impossible for them right now. Remembering everything in the moment that Davo and his friends had broken Puck's hold on Rexall—and on him—had been a wild, awful thing, and even though Jordan suddenly remembered every feeling he'd ever had about Taylor and everything they'd shared together, he'd also remembered putting him through years of hurt. There's only so much that can be immediately forgiven.

Not according to Taylor, of course. Taylor had been ready to put it all behind them, but Jordan's a little slower to forgive himself.

It hadn't helped anything that they'd been hit with Taylor's trade, either. Jordan had tried to follow, had all but threatened to refuse to report, but it's not like management had known what they were doing to Jordan and Taylor personally, or that it would have mattered much. He and Taylor had held onto each other for as long as they could, and then they'd started their seasons in different time zones for the first time in a long, long time.

(Jordan has two years left on his contract. He's not thinking about it, not yet, but he'd be lying if he said that it hadn't occurred to him to consider signing somewhere in the east.)

Ryan walks beside him on the way to the bus, not saying anything, and Jordan's grateful for him. He remembers Taylor and Ryan getting closer after he'd made his deal, and Taylor told him after that it was because Ryan knew everything that was going on and volunteered to be his support system. He's not actually surprised that Ryan knows he needs a little support right now, but he's glad that Ryan sits next to him on the bus anyway.

"Nothing's gonna happen," Ryan says quietly as the bus starts. "You know better this time."

Jordan fights the shiver threatening to run down his spine. "I knew better last time, too," he says. "Besides, it doesn't need me to give it anything. It takes just fine on its own."

"And it has another team to do that with at the moment," Ryan says calmly. "You're safe, Jordan. The team is safe. We're going to go in, play our game, and leave, all of us just as intact as we were when we went in."

"Hockey happens," Jordan feels compelled to point out.

Ryan's smile is sharp. "So does magic. Aly and her team have us extra-covered tonight."

Jordan sighs, but it does make him relax a little. Aly knows her shit, and he's glad for it all the time, but especially now. "One game," he says.

"One game," Ryan repeats. "That's all."

It helps right up until it doesn't; Jordan sleeps well, he's fine at breakfast, but he can feel the dread building in his stomach as they get on the bus and head for the Pepsi Center. It's a sunny, clear day in Colorado, and Jordan knows he's being uncharitable, but he wishes that the weather was reflecting how he was feeling.

The guys are all cautious as they approach the building. Nobody outright says anything, but then, nobody has to; even the new guys, the ones who hadn't been around for any part of the Puck fiasco, have heard the stories. It's easy to tell that nobody wants to go in first; Jordan would normally be that guy, the one to laugh and jostle an arm and step out in front, but he thinks he can forgive himself for not doing it just this once.

It's not actually surprising that it's Connor who takes a deep breath and walks through the door. He doesn't slow at all, doesn't look around, just keeps his head up and heads down the hallway. Talbot laughs, easy like he's not bothered, and follows; the rest of the guys trail in after him, until it's just Jordan and Ryan left waiting.

"Do you want an extra warding charm?" Ryan asks quietly. He's holding his hand out, palm-up, and Jordan can see his magic gently gathering in his palm. Ryan's the only person Jordan's ever met who just visualises his magic as magic, just a pool of energy, and it's always been odd, but it's also always been Ryan.

"I'll be okay," Jordan manages to croak out.

Ryan smiles slightly. "Of course you will. Do you want the charm anyway?"

It makes Jordan laugh weakly. "Kind of," he admits. "I can get it from Aly, though. I don't want to zap you before a game."

Ryan sighs and rolls his eyes, then grabs Jordan's hand. "Puck can't see you, it can't feel you, it can't touch you or anyone you care about," he says firmly. His magic burns hot against Jordan's palm, but Jordan feels the words settle into his bones, steady and sure. Ryan holds on for a moment more, until the heat of his magic fades away, and then he lets go. "Ready to go inside?"

Jordan's smile comes more easily this time. "Yeah. Thanks."

Ryan puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs a little, bumping his shoulder against Jordan's. "I'm glad to help."

"Thanks anyway," Jordan says. It's still not easy to square his shoulders and walk towards the door, but it is _possible_ , and that's more than he expected when he got off the plane last night. Ryan follows behind him, and he doesn't say anything when Jordan sucks in a sharp breath as he steps over the threshold.

Jordan can feel Puck, is the thing. It's nothing like it was in Edmonton, but he feels it like something crackling down his spine as soon as he steps into the Pepsi Center. It's grim determination that lets him keep walking, one foot in front of the other, toward the locker room. It's not that he doubted Puck was here before, but there's no way to ignore it now.

He keeps walking.

-0-

There's no curse mark in Denver. Jordan isn't sure if that's a good sign or a bad one, not yet. It could mean that Puck's being smarter this time, or it could mean that it's still too weak to pull anything big. Jordan had checked in every way he knows how, and Ryan had as well; there's nothing on the ice, nothing in the stands, nothing that could serve as Puck's point of contact. It's baffling, but Jordan pushes it to the back of his mind as they practice. He has to focus on the game; Puck can't touch him here, and there are the playoffs to clinch, so he puts his head down and works on passing drills.

Their post-practice is pretty low-key; most of the guys are slowly letting down their guard, and it's making for a kind of weird tension in the locker room. They all shower and change, but as they're getting ready to head back to the bus, there's a loud knock at the door of the locker room.

"Uh," Connor says, looking around the room after a moment of silence. "I'm guessing nobody ordered pizza, then."

It breaks a lot of the tension, and Jordan's never begrudged Connor the captaincy, but he's especially glad Connor has it now. Connor smiles a little as he stands and walks to the door, pulling it wide to reveal Gabriel Landeskog, perfectly put together and rocking back on his heels a little.

"Hi," Landeskog says, smiling at Connor, a quick, sure thing. "I was hoping I could talk to you."

Connor glances back into the room. His gaze lands on Jordan, then on Ryan, and then he looks back at Landeskog. "Just me?"

"Bring your posse," Landeskog says, stepping back. "Gods know I've got mine."

When Jordan looks around the room, he's both surprised and not to see Maroon standing loose on his feet, "We'd all like to hear what you have to say," he says, looking straight at Landeskog.

Landeskog nods. "And you will," he says, putting his hands out, palms up. "You have my word. I'd just like to speak to the curse-breakers."

"His word," someone mutters. "Wonder what that's worth."

"Guys, head back to the hotel," Connor says, voice calm. "Ebs, Nuge, if you'd come with me, I'd be grateful."

"Davo," Maroon starts.

Connor turns and looks at him, smiling a little. "Thanks, Patty," he says. "We'll have a team meeting later, yeah? You heard him. You'll get to know what he says."

"C'mon, guys," Nursey says loudly, and Jordan sighs a little in relief. "Lunch, naps, grilling Davo about the weird demon discussion. And then we crush the Avs."

The team roars at that, and Landeskog grins, nodding slightly at Nursey. There's something off, Jordan thinks, something about the exchange, but he doesn't have the time or wits to devote to figuring it out right now. He just sits in his stall as the guys file out, until finally it's just him, Ryan, Connor, and Landeskog.

"I have a meeting room saved," Landeskog says, gesturing down the hallway. "Neutral ground, of a sort."

He can't come into the visitors' locker room on a game day, and they can't go into the Avs', so it makes sense, Jordan figures. Ryan seems to think the same, because he stands up when Jordan does, and they all follow Landeskog down the hallway.

"Who else is here?" Connor asks.

"Nate MacKinnon and Calvin Pickard," comes the reply. "Nate's a little more in tune with magic being out of tune, and Picks… well, he's a goalie."

Ryan snorts, and Jordan bites back a laugh. No matter what, it seems, goalies are goalies.

"And you?" Connor asks, voice completely even.

There's a barely-there stutter in Landeskog's step. "I'm on your side. That's all that really matters right now."

"That's a hell of a way to not answer the question," Ryan observes. He doesn't do anything quite so obvious as starting to cast a protection charm or anything, but Jordan can feel the energy around them change a little, like Ryan's readying himself to do something if push comes to shove.

Landeskog stops walking, and Jordan has to reach out and yank on Connor's shirt to keep him from running him over. He turns and looks at Ryan, every inch of him calm. He smiles slightly, putting his hands out, palms up, as he had in the locker room. "I'm not here to hurt you, Ryan," he says. "Nor your friends. You have my word."

Jordan opens his mouth, maybe to repeat what had been said in the locker room, maybe not. He doesn't get the chance to say anything, though, because Ryan reaches out with magic streaming from his fingers, stopping with his palm hovering an inch above Landeskog's. Nobody says anything for a few seconds, and then Ryan sucks in a sharp breath, looking from his hand up to Landeskog's face. "What are you?"

"I am fae," Landeskog says. It's like a charm breaks as he says it; suddenly it's hard to look at him, like he's blurry at the edges and too sharp to not be slicing through the air at the same time. "Well, partially. Enough of me is fae for me to say that my word will be kept."

"Fae," Connor breathes. Jordan glances over at him and, despite the seriousness of the situation, has to bite back a laugh; his eyes are like saucers. "I've—wow. That's new."

Landeskog blinks at him, then throws his head back and laughs, withdrawing his hand from the hold of Ryan's magic as if it had never been tethered there in the first place. Ryan's eyes go wide, too, but he's quicker to hide it than Connor had been.

"Nothing about my kind is new," he says, smiling. He looks… not normal, not like he'd appeared before he dropped his little bombshell, but he does look more like that person than the odd _other_ -thing Jordan had been seeing. He wonders if Connor had seen it, or if he's too magic-blind to have picked up on it. Taylor definitely—

Jordan clears his throat. "So you're fae," he says.

"Partially," Landeskog says again. "My great-grandfather on my mother's side was fae. I only have enough fae blood in me to make my word an absolute." He grins. "You don't have to worry about, like, thanking me for things."

"Thanking you for things," Jordan echoes, mostly to himself. He needs to do some reading, apparently, as if the world hadn't been complicated enough without the addition of more magical creatures.

"Yeah," Landeskog says, shrugging a little. "Nobody in the League is full-blood fae, so really, you shouldn't have to worry about it with any of them." He coughs a little. "Be, ah. Be careful what you say if you ever meet any of Backstrom's non-hockey friends, though."

"Nicklas Backstrom is fae," Ryan says, like he's trying the words on for size.

"Half," Landeskog corrects. "Most in the League, though. He's kind of like…" He scowls a little. "Skinny treats him like he's my dad, and it's annoying as shit, but he's not totally wrong. Not totally right, but... " He sighs. "Look, fae politics are pretty complicated at the best of times, and we really do have better things to talk about right now. Can we table it?"

"Yes," Connor says firmly. When Jordan looks at him, he's got his resolute captain face on. "Let's find your guys and see what we can figure out."


	4. March: Nate

Even if he'd been blindfolded and couldn't hear a thing, Nate would know the instant the Oilers contingent stepped into the room.

He hadn't sensed the whole demon thing at first; his going theory is that he's kind of shitty at meditation, even though he does it all the time with Jo. Jo's argument is that Nate had been looking within, to his own magic, and Puck hadn't done anything to him yet, so it was impossible for the meditation to actually help.

Nate might have gotten hung up on the _yet_ part. He's trying to move past it.

Anyway, ever since Gabe had sat down with them all and broken the news, Nate's been able to feel it. There's a subtle sense of wrongness about the Pepsi Center, something dark in all of its corners, and Nate's gotten so used to looking around for it that he's just sort of always peripherally aware of it now. It's always there, never pushing at its boundaries, but when Gabe walks in, Nate almost jolts out of his seat with the sudden spike of _bad wrong bad_ that pushes at him out of nowhere.

"Wow," he manages, only hunching over a little. "That thing does _not_ like you guys."

Ebs goes paler than Nate's ever seen anyone go before. "Is it—what's it doing?"

"He can feel it," Gabe says, looking right at Nate. "Keep tabs on it, sort of. Not talk to it or anything."

"Small mercies," Nuge mutters. "I wish I could _forget_ talking to it."

"No lie," Davo agrees. "You okay, Mack?"

Nate waves a hand in the air and makes himself sit back up. The feeling in his head is seething, rolling almost, and it's distracting but it's not painful. "I'm fine. Just wasn't expecting… anything."

Nuge snorts. "We trapped it in a hell dimension and threw it into the void, more or less. I'm not shocked that it's not thrilled to see us."

"About that," Picks pipes up. "How?"

Davo glances at his guys, then sighs. "I mean, it was different in Edmonton."

It's a fascinating story; Davo tells most of it, but Ebs and Nuge throw in some of the details, too. It's kind of terrifying that a demon could disguise itself as a curse well enough to fool people for thirty years, but at the same time, Nate isn't really shocked. He's actually more surprised that the thing learned from its mistakes; from what he knows, demons are mostly one-trick ponies, unless you're dealing with one of the super nasty ones.

That… really doesn't bode well, actually.

Ebs finally sighs. "We had a curse mark, which was covering up the binding mark," he says. "Obviously you guys don't have anything like that. Have you found anything?"

"Not really," Gabe admits. "We've looked, but..."

"So there's a concealment charm," Nuge muses. "Which confirms the outside help theory."

Nate blinks. "Wait, what?"

Gabe groans. "Oh my god, nobody tell Skinny about this," he says. "I cannot _believe_ we didn't think to look for a concealment charm."

Picks snorts. "We're having a hell of a season, if you don't mind the pun," he says. "I think we get a pass."

"Skinny is definitely keeping track of all the passes we're being given," Gabe says darkly. "He'll have chirping material until we're old and gray at this point."

"You age?" Davo blurts out, then actually claps his hand over his mouth.

Gabe stares at him for a second, then two, before laughing. "Yes," he manages, wiping at his face after a moment. "We all do here. Live in the mortal world, live as a mortal, more or less." His shoulders are still shaking a little.

"Except for your magic," Picks points out. "And hey, speaking of."

"Yeah, yeah," Gabe says, still clearly amused. He turns to Davo. "Want to see my party trick?"

"I don't know," Davo says warily, flicking his eyes to Nate. "Do I?"

"He doesn't bite," Nate says, standing and stretching. "C'mon, let's go find a concealment charm." He heads out of the room and towards the ice without looking back; he doesn't know Davo well, but he knows enough to know he'll be too curious to resist.

They all walk out onto the ice; it's kind of weird, honestly, how they all sort of gravitate to the right places around the Avs logo. Nate's across from Ebs, breaker to breaker, and Picks and Nuge are facing each other. That leaves Gabe and Davo, who probably couldn't be more opposite, except for how they're both kind of extremes when it comes to magical power. Nate figures it'll probably be fine.

"Okay," Picks says. He glances around quickly, then shakes his head. "Well, it's nothing obvious, but we already knew that. Everyone just hold steady until I say so, got it?"

"What are you going to do?" Ebs asks warily.

"Find it," Picks says simply. "Goalies can find things."

"It's why the rest of us can't stop pucks worth a damn," Gabe says cheerily. "Ready for a boost?"

"Boost?" Davo asks, eyebrows in his hairline.

"Gabe can," Nate starts, then realises he has no real way to end that sentence. "Um. I guess it's kind of like he's a battery, when he wants to be?"

"A battery," Nuge echoes. He shakes his head a little. "That's new."

Gabe shrugs, then holds his fist out. It's for show, Nate knows; he doesn't really need to do anything in particular to make the smoke appear. It's even more purple now than it had been when they first noticed things were going wrong, and it's a little startling, Nate has to admit, when Gabe opens his hand and it starts swirling in the air around him.

"Okay then," Ebs mutters. He glances at Picks. "Need anything from anyone else?"

"Just hold the line," Picks says. He closes his eyes and says something under his breath, soft and rhythmic, and when he opens his eyes again, they're glowing.

"Um," someone breathes out, but Nate doesn't turn to find out who, doesn't look away from Picks. He can't help like Gabe can, but he can concentrate on the weird feeling in the back of his mind, watch closely for any changes, see if maybe he can help Picks narrow down where to look.

It takes a while; Gabe keeps a steady stream of smoke swirling in the air around all of them, and Picks slowly turns until he's scanned all of the seats, all the way up into the rafters. There's a slight crease in his forehead once he's made the whole circuit, and when he speaks, it sounds like it's coming from far away.

"I don't see anything," he says. "I don't understand."

"Picks," Nuge says, drawing everyone's attention. "I think… what if we all just back up? Three steps, keep the line, but.."

Picks nods slowly, closing his eyes again. "On three, three steps back," he instructs. "One, two, three."

They're all pretty coordinated; Nate will be impressed with them later, though, because Picks opens his eyes and stares at centre ice, and Nate yells and drops to his knees, clutching at his head.

-0-

The first distinct thought Nate has is that he's not on the ice, and the second is that everything is warm and dark and blessedly quiet.

"Hey," someone says softly, and Nate realises abruptly that there are hands cradling his face, magic running soothingly across his skin. "Nate, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Nate rasps out, then coughs. His throat is ragged, raw. "What—"

"Picks found the concealment charm," is the steady reply. "Can you open your eyes? The lights are off, but the door's open, so you'll be able to see without going sun-blind."

Nate nods a tiny bit, barely moving his head, and forces himself to crack his eyes open. He recognises Nuge pretty much immediately, then glances around and finds Gabe and Davo not too far behind him. "Uh."

"There he is," Gabe says. It's something he's said a thousand times, usually sarcastically after someone on the team does something totally boneheaded, but this time there's a note of relief in the words. "Nate. Are you okay?"

"I think so," Nate hedges, swallowing hard. He looks back at Nuge. "Are you... what's the spell?"

"Warding, simple healing," Nuge replies. "You hit the ice like a sack of bricks, and Landy said before that you could feel it or something. I figured putting up some walls between you and it was a good plan."

"Yeah," Nate says, squeezing his eyes shut. He remembers—not pain, not exactly, but a sound like shrieking so loud that it echoed in his skull, a hissing like every single snake in the world decided to turn it on all at the same time, the feeling of something _freezing_ pushing at the nape of his neck. He shudders, and Nuge presses his hands in a little more, sending another wave of warmth through Nate.

"We should get you out of here," Picks says from somewhere near the door. "I think Nuge and I can work up some real barriers for you, but we need to be away from the source for that to happen."

"Can you get up?" Nuge asks. "You didn't hit your head or anything, but…"

"I can get up," Nate says as confidently as he can manage. He's not actually sure that he can, but he would really enjoy not being where Puck is right now. "Can you, uh. Can you keep the spell on me until we're out of here?"

Nuge nods, then frowns a little in concentration. He lifts one hand away from Nate's face and quickly reaches down to catch his hand, then pulls his other hand away. The magic never wavers, and Nuge smiles. "Ready when you are."

"Let's do it," Nate says. He has to take a deep breath before he can stand, but his legs stay steady underneath him. He walks hand-in-hand with Nuge out into the parking lot, and he doesn't really know how to be grateful to Nuge for not pulling his hand back until Nate drops it, well away from the building.

"We can go back to my place," Gabe offers. "It's not far, and there's some extra energy stored up that you can use if you need."

Nuge's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and Nate has to bite his lip to keep from laughing as Nuge turns. "You can just… save magic?"

Gabe blinks, and Nate's pretty sure the sound from behind him is Picks coughing to cover up a laugh. "Well, yeah," Gabe says, sounding innocent. "Can't you?"

"Not without a lot of practice," Ebs says, speaking up for the first time in a long time. Nate knows he's got some sort of history with Puck, something even worse than what happened to the rest of the Oilers, and he feels bad for dragging him into this mess. Then again, they really do need everyone they can get. "And a… focus object? I think? I'm not sure; I stopped my training before I got there."

"He's messing with you," Nate says, rolling his eyes. "It's one of his fae things. He's got a big glowing rock in his apartment that he won't let us use as a coffee table."

Gabe looks hilariously offended. "If you could store your magic—"

"We're all glad you can," Davo cuts in, captain mode in top gear. "Let's go to your place and get Nate all set up with his wards so we can nap before the game, eh?"

Gabe's mouth snaps shut. "Right."

They all split up to drive; each of them takes an Oiler and heads to Gabe's, and Nate ends up with Ebs. It figures, really, since Ebs is the guy he knows least, but it turns out not to matter, because Ebs shoots him a brief smile as soon as they get in the car. "I'm sorry it got into your head."

"Me too," Nate says, shivering a little. "It was like…"

"Did it say anything?" Ebs asks as they pull out of the parking lot.

Nate shakes his head as he gets onto the highway. "Not that I heard."

"That's good, probably," Ebs says, staring out the windshield. "We… when it was in Edmonton, it spoke to us. Showed everyone some kind of awful nightmare scenario and then…"

"Said something creepy," Nate concludes when Ebs trails off. He catches Ebs' nod out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm a little afraid to say it," Ebs says after a moment, laughing a little nervously. "Like, I heard it, we all heard it, and then I heard it say a bunch of other things when I pulled my big stupid hero move, but none of us ever _felt_ it like you did. Do. I'm afraid I'll trigger something."

"Yeah, don't, I'm driving," Nate says quickly, and Ebs laughs. Nate hesitates before going on. "Can I ask what your 'big dumb hero move' was?"

Ebs shifts and sighs. "I thought it was going to kill one of our guys," he says, sounding a little distant. "There was no way out of it, so I bargained with it. Gave it something I knew it wanted in exchange for his safety."

"Shit," Nate says, feeling his eyes go wide.

"Pretty much," Ebs says, laughing without humor. "I didn't remember anything about it after I did it, not until Davo and his friends kicked Puck out. And now, well." He shrugs a little bit. "Now I remember… all of it."

"Shit," Nate repeats, because really, what else is there to say to that? "I can just kind of… feel it, I guess. I've got some experience with bad magic, and it's not all the different when it comes down to it."

Ebs nods. "I guess that makes sense."

"I wish it didn't," Nate says. He's aware that he's whining, but he can only do so much, and he's starting to get even more freaked out about the whole Puck thing. He thinks he's at least a little allowed, given the circumstances. "I wish none of this was happening."

"Yeah, well," Ebs says, giving him the ghost of a smile. "Unless you've developed wishing powers that nobody's aware of yet, I think we're shit out of luck on that front."

"I'll keep trying," Nate says, only half-joking, and if nothing else, it gets Ebs to actually laugh.


	5. March: Gabe

Having so many other people in his space is… odd, Gabe decides. It's not bad, not really, but it makes something in him take notice, and he knows that he'll spend the time he'd usually use to nap doing a purification ritual instead. He likes people, has loved a few, but there's a reason he doesn't host team barbecues.

Picks and Nuge are set up near Gabe's stone, murmuring to each other and tracing patterns in the air. It's a good thing that Gabe sort of impulsively blurted out that they could share his energy; he can see that keeping that _thing_ away from Nate had cost Nuge more than he's letting on, and even if Picks had used Gabe's magic to search for the concealment charm in the arena, he's not exactly at full capacity right now, either. It's going to take a chunk out of what Gabe has stored there, but this is exactly the kind of situation that storage was created to handle.

He hopes it's enough. He hopes that what he's been able to save up, store away, is enough to get them through until the end of… whatever the end of this whole mess is.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asks when Picks nods and steps away from Nuge.

"Show us how to tap into this," Nuge says, holding his hands above the stone. He looks fascinated, but he's not touching it; Gabe got to know him a little during their draft, and he's always known that Nuge was a solid guy, but he likes him just a little bit more for not assuming that permission had already been granted. It's a fae thing and he knows it, but he can be really territorial over some things.

Gabe nods and strides over. "You just," he says, reaching out and laying his hand on the stone. He feels it immediately, all the power inside, but he doesn't need anything right now. "Put your hand on the stone. You will have what you need."

Nuge looks at him for a moment, considering, but then he shrugs and lays his hand beside Gabe's. His eyes widen fractionally, and Gabe feels some of the power drain away. "Whoa."

"It comes in handy," Gabe says, amused. "You'll need more after you cast your spell. There's enough here." He's pretty sure, anyway.

Nuge nods, looking at his fingers, then at the stone. "Is that something I can learn to do?"

"Yes and no," Gabe replies. "You'd have… limits. I can put you in touch with someone who's done things like that before if you'd like."

"I'd appreciate that," Nuge says absently, flexing his fingers. "It seems useful."

Gabe nods. "I'll forward your name and number," he promises. "Now, how about Nate?"

"We'll need somewhere he can sit," Nuge says. "The less he moves, the better it'll take, more or less."

"He can lay on the sofa," Gabe offers. It's big enough and he knows it; they're not far apart enough in age that Nate was really Gabe's rookie, but Gabe's still the captain, and Nate's spent a few nights picking Gabe's brain about ways to help his Jo. He fits on the sofa, is what Gabe's saying here.

"Okay," Nuge says, turning. "Picks, grab some magic. Nate, lay down on the sofa." He's like the eye of the storm, Gabe thinks, watching him direct everyone to where they need to be. He's the calm one at the center, even when everything's flying around his head.

Nuge turns and gives Gabe an assessing look, then nods. "Landy, if you wouldn't mind, stand near the head of the sofa. Nothing should happen, but if it does…" He flashes Gabe a smile. "Catch it."

Gabe cracks his knuckles, mostly for show. "I feel like I should make a baseball joke, but…"

"Baseball _is_ the joke?" Ebs offers, and it cracks the tension, makes everyone laugh.

When Gabe takes his place, Nate peers up at him from his spot on the sofa. "This is gonna work, right?"

Sometimes Gabe just… forgets, honestly, how young Nate is, especially for how close in age they are. He smiles reassuringly. "Nuge is good, and you know Picks wouldn't hurt you."

"I don't think they're gonna hurt me," Nate scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I just want to know that it's gonna work."

"It's gonna work," Davo affirms, appearing out of nowhere to lean over the back of the sofa. He grins down at Nate. "Nuge did a bunch of wards for the guys on the team before we came down here. He's solid, Mack."

Davo _is_ actually as young as Nate seems, younger even, but he's got the captain thing down pat. It's not hard to see Nate respond to it, to the confidence and candor in his voice. There's nothing magical in Davo, not that Gabe can find, but magic is far from being as all-consuming and all-important as a lot of people believe it to be.

"We're ready," Nuge says, standing in front of the sofa, to Gabe's left. Picks mirrors him across the back of the sofa, and Ebs is at the other end, facing Gabe. Davo takes a step back, and when Nuge holds his hand out and cups at the energy racing from his fingertips, it's like they're all suddenly in their own little world.

"We're going to attach the wards to your magic, and then to you," Picks explains. "Think of it like…" He makes a face. "Okay, this isn't exactly comforting, but think of it like us sewing them to you."

"Gross," Nate says, giving Picks a cheery smile. "Go for it, man. I can handle it."

"You shouldn't really feel much," Nuge assures him. "Actually, let me know if you do."

"Will do," Nate says, giving him a mock salute.

Nuge rolls his eyes and bats at his hand. "And stay still," he says firmly.

Nate twitches his hand like he's gonna go for a thumbs-up before deciding against it. Gabe applauds his restraint, really. They all sort of look around for a minute, until Picks nods and spreads his hands over Nate's chest, and Nuge starts literally pouring his magic into the soft, dark aura Picks has created.

It takes… Gabe's not sure how long, actually; it seems like it takes a while, but he's also aware that time might not be passing like he thinks it is. Nate stays still on the sofa, eyes fixed on whatever he can see from below the spell as Nuge moves his hands around and murmurs under his breath, Picks sometimes joining him, sometimes not. Gabe and Ebs don't really have anything to do; nothing goes wrong, so neither of them has to practice whatever baseball skills they might have.

Finally, an indeterminable amount of time later, Nuge lets his hands fall to his sides and Picks folds the aura in on itself, pushing it down towards Nate's chest. Nate sucks in a breath when it lands on his shirt, fading right through and sinking into his diaphragm. Picks nods, stepping back, and it's like life outside their little magical bubble clicks back on.

"Did it work?" Davo asks, stepping forward when Picks takes a step away from the sofa.

"It worked," Nuge says, still standing in place. He looks worse than exhausted; Gabe wonders if he should reach out, offer some help, but Davo's already slipping his arm around Nuge's waist and taking his weight. Davo shoots Gabe a quick smile and jerks his head at the stone, and Gabe nods back. There's no way he would send anyone away with the amount of magical strain that Nuge is showing right now, let alone someone who just helped a teammate. Fae aren't generally fond of the concept of debt.

Nate sits up, rolling his head a little on his shoulders. "Huh," he says, a look on his face that Gabe knows is him poking at his own magic. "That's really interesting, you guys."

"You're sewn in tight," Picks says, sure and steady. "Also, you're gonna sleep for, like, fifteen hours, but not until after the game." He turns and grins at Ebs. "Don't let it go to a shootout, okay?"

Ebs laughs. "Pretty sure that's on you, man. I'll keep shooting on you, but you gotta let us get a bunch in."

"Not a chance in hell," Picks says easily, grinning wider.

Gabe smiles, but he's glad nobody's really looking at him. His promise is a promise, even if it's just a nod that almost nobody else noticed was being made; the Oilers will crush them tonight. It won't even look like anything but the Avs continuing to have the season of their nightmares. Part of Gabe wonders if the rest of the Oilers know that Nurse is more or less Gabe's kin, but honestly, he's pretty sure the answer is no.

"Hey," Nate says, pulling Gabe from his thoughts. "We'll be good until the end of the season." He sounds confident, promising things he doesn't really have any control over.

Gabe smiles and lets him get away with it anyway. "We will," he agrees.

He'll do whatever it takes to make sure that's the truth.


	6. March: Ryan

The game is—

Well, it's a shitshow, but it's the kind of shitshow Ryan's sort of begrudgingly become used to. There seem to be just as many Oilers fans in the Pepsi Center as Avs fans; Ryan ruefully thinks it's probably due more to the abysmal season the Avs have had than any surge of new fans. The game is chippy and fast-paced, and they go into the third down by two, but it's like the Avs had had all the life sucked out of them during intermission. It's not often that your team scores five unanswered goals, but Ryan will take the win without complaint.

Well. Without _much_ complaint.

"Had to outscore me, huh," Ryan says, hip-checking Jordan gently as they walk to the bus. "Two goals _and_ an assist. You're making me look like a slacker, Ebby."

"You had a really nice assist on that empty-netter," Jordan says, all faux-earnestness. "Keep trying, bud. The goals'll come."

"You're an ass," Ryan says, laughing and shoving at Jordan's shoulder. It's nice to see him relaxed and joking around. This season has been rough on him with Taylor gone, Ryan knows, but this game in particular had been a bad time. It had to have helped him put the past to rest a little, getting three points in Puck's building.

"I'm ready to go home, is what I am," Jordan says, climbing onto the bus. "We need to have a meeting as soon as everyone's got an hour."

Ryan nods and lets Jordan continue to the back of the bus; he slides in next to Connor, who gives him a tired smile and leans against his side. Ryan bumps the back of his hand against Connor's thigh, and Connor only hesitates for a second before taking it.

"Hi," Connor says, squeezing Ryan's hand.

"Fancy meeting you here," Ryan replies, squeezing back. It makes Connor's smile widen, which is really all Ryan was going for. "So we need to set up a meeting with everyone."

"Yeah," Connor says, leaning his head back against the seat as the bus pulls slowly out of the lot. "Dylan can meet pretty much any day he doesn't have a game. I don't know Mitch's schedule offhand, but I'm sure he can swing some time."

"We need to get the Carolina guys in," Ryan reminds him. "And probably the Avs, too. At least Landy, and probably Mack and Picks."

"Yeah, and Jo Drouin, too," Connor says again. He screws up his face. "This is getting complicated."

"This got complicated a long time ago," Ryan points out. "Now it's just getting difficult to schedule."

"Next time we have to figure out how to kill a demon, we'll make sure it happens in a lockout year," Connor says with a little laugh. "Which I hope is never, right along with more demons."

"Amen to no more demons," Ryan agrees fervently.

Connor sighs and tips his head against Ryan's. "We're no closer to figuring out who's behind all of this, right?"

"Not last time I checked," Ryan says reluctantly. "If all else fails, I'm pretty sure we can wheel and deal with Puck to—"

Connor slaps his hand over Ryan's mouth, pulling back and looking at him with wide eyes. "Don't even joke," he says, quiet but forceful. "Ryan. Don't even joke about making a deal with that thing."

"Sorry," Ryan says, gently pulling Connor's hand away from his mouth. "That's not what I meant, okay? It'll probably try to bargain with us, if we do our jobs right. It'll throw out anything it thinks we want as a bargaining chip."

It makes Connor nod a little and drop back into his seat. "I'd rather we just figure it out on our own," he mutters. "I don't want to rely on it for anything."

"Agreed," Ryan says. "I'm just saying, we can keep that in our pockets as a backup plan."

"Fine," Connor says, making a face. Ryan bites his lip to keep from grinning; it's no secret that he finds most things Connor does to be some kind of attractive, but overtired post-game Connor is actually adorable, and that's not a word Ryan uses lightly.

"Maybe we should just get as many people as we can together and then loop everyone else in after," Ryan suggests after a moment. The bus is dark, lights flickering in the window as they make their way to the hotel. It illuminates Connor's face in flashes, harsh light and muted nighttime city-glow slipping there and away again before Ryan can adjust to either. It's kind of beautiful in its own way.

"That's probably gonna be easier than trying to line up so many different people," Connor says after a moment. "Maybe we can record it? At least the audio. That way we don't miss anything when we send it to whoever can't make it."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees. "I mean, I have Garage Band and a laptop microphone, so we can definitely make that happen."

"Okay," Connor says. He's starting to crash; Ryan will be lucky if he gets Connor up to their room without having to drag him partway. He doesn't actually mind, is the thing, but Connor tends to get grumpily embarrassed about it every time it happens.

Ryan nudges him. "Don't fall asleep," he chides gently. "I'll leave you for Nursey to deal with."

"Thought you loved me," Connor whines, burying his face in Ryan's neck.

It's easy enough for Ryan to turn his head and hide his smile in Connor's hair. "I guess I do," he agrees.

-0-

It takes a few days to get the meeting set up. It's never easy to get schedules to line up, and it's even less so at the end of the season; even the guys with nothing left to play for are still giving it whatever they can, so off-days aren't ever really days off. Still, they manage to set up a meeting with everyone but Mitch and the Avs guys as March draws to a close. It's a little weird, Ryan thinks; he hardly knows some of these guys, but they're all involved, all trying to figure things out.

"So you found a binding mark," Skinner says, leaning in close to the camera on his laptop. His eyes are almost comically wide, and his camera starts moving erratically as he leans closer. A hand comes into the frame to steady the laptop, and Skinner grins a little sheepishly up at who Ryan's going to assume is Hanifin. "Whoops."

"We found a binding mark," Jordan confirms. "It was under a hell of a concealment charm at centre ice."

There's a moment of silence before Jo Drouin sighs. "So someone definitely let it out on purpose, and then tried to hide the evidence."

"They did a pretty good job of it," Ryan admits. "I mean, we found it, but it… um." He casts a glance at Connor, who shrugs a tiny bit. Mack hadn't said anything about not telling his boyfriend, but if they haven't talked about it yet, Ryan doesn't want to drop that particular bombshell.

"It attacked Nathan," Jo says, voice almost completely even. "He told me."

"Wait, it did what?" Dylan demands. His screen wobbles; Ryan's pretty sure he's on his phone. "How the fuck did it do that?"

"We poked it, it poked back, and he's got some sort of weird mind-meld thing with it," Connor says. "He's fine. Nuge and Picks warded the hell out of him."

"He's probably safer there right now than the rest of us are being elsewhere," Jordan adds. "They did some really heavy-duty stuff."

Dylan shakes his head, looking off to the side. It's hard to get a lot of detail with his face so small and the screen so pixelated, but Ryan's pretty sure he checks out for a little while. He shakes his head again before Ryan can be sure and looks back at the camera. "Mitch thinks you're all crazy," he says. "Personally, I don't think that's a strong enough word for it, but I agree with the sentiment."

"Uh," Taylor interjects, frowning. "I thought Marns had a practice thing he couldn't ditch?"

"Yeah, and he's super thrilled about it, let me tell you," Dylan says, grinning. He taps lightly at his forehead. "Let's just say we're on the same wavelength."

Connor groans. "You did _not_ just say that. I'm telling him you said that."

"He knows," Dylan says smugly, and Ryan has to bite back a smile. "Anyway, Hallsy, it's like… think of it as, like, texting, but with your brain. And you never lose signal."

Taylor looks appropriately confused, in Ryan's opinion. Before he can interject, though, Jo speaks up again. "So what do we do from here?"

"Divide and conquer," Connor says, going into captain mode. It's funny, Ryan thinks with a note of pride; Connor has actually captained most of the guys on the call, but even Skinner and Hanifin lean in and pay more attention. "We need to figure a few things out, and it'll be easier if we have people focusing on specific things, instead of everybody freaking out about everything all at once."

Dylan actually raises his hand, and Ryan can almost feel the smartassery rolling off of him. "Can I freak out about whatever you assign me personally instead?"

"Ask the co-occupant of your brain," Connor replies without missing a beat. "You and Mitch are working with Hanny and Skinner on how to murder demons."

"Awesome," Hanifin says. "Stromer, no freaking out. We get to kick ass."

"High five," Dylan says, wiggling his fingers. He frowns after a second. "Man, that works better in person."

"We owe you one," Skinner promises. "Who's next?"

"Jo," Connor says, eyes flicking to his face on the screen. "You and the Avs and Hallsy get to figure out who the hell let this thing out."

"Good," Jo says, voice dark. "Is part of that kicking them somewhere painful? I'd very much like to do that."

"We can negotiate terms," Connor says lightly. "Also, I'm pretty sure we'll have to hold a lottery for who gets to go first overall on that one."

"Me," Taylor says emphatically.

Ryan waits, but nobody objects, and after a moment Taylor relaxes a little.

"We're gonna work on how Puck ended up in Edmonton in the first place," Connor continues, gesturing to himself, then Ryan and Jordan. "Hopefully we can figure everything out before we need to get in there and kill it."

"Yeah, no offense, but I'm pulling for our group the hardest," Hanifin says. "We need to figure the rest of it out, but demon murder should be high up on the list, I think."

Jo hums a little. "I have some people I could call," he offers. "I don't know if they'd be able to help, but it's possible."

"I'm all for getting help," Dylan says, serious for a moment. Ryan likes him, likes how devoted he is to those he's deemed worth it, how he does whatever is needed in any situation, whether that's banishing Connor's demon or lightening the mood at a meeting Connor's holding. "I might be able to talk to some of the Yotes, but honestly, nobody down here is especially magically talented."

"We can ask Cam Ward," Skinner offers. "He's pretty good at stuff."

"Stuff is good," Jo says, flashing them a grin. "I'll call, uh. Martin St. Louis said I could reach out, and…"

"And?" Ryan prompts.

Jo shrugs a little. "Ovechkin?"

"Ovechkin," Taylor repeats, clearly a little dumbstruck. "You just... have his number. In your phone."

"Nuge has Crosby's," Jordan points out.

Hanifin starts laughing. "Can they be on a team together for something? Please?"

"We'll see," Connor says, smiling slightly. "Okay, Jo, call your people. Everyone should bring anyone they trust in on this, if they can help. We're not going to be able to do anything until the summer, so we have a little time, but not _that_ much."

"Can I switch to Ovechkin's team?" Dylan asks. Before anyone can answer, he frowns. "Aw, fine. Never mind; Mitch wants to stay on Team Demon Murder."

"If it helps, Ovi will probably want to be on Team Demon Murder," Jo offers, and Dylan brightens again.

"Knew I liked him," he says. "Give him my—"

Connor seems to catch on at the same time Dylan trails off. "Okay, wait. Does everyone have everyone else's phone numbers?"

"Definitely not," Skinner says. "Maybe we should have, like, a Google Doc or something?"

"I'll make it," Taylor volunteers, clearly already doing something on his laptop. "I'll invite everyone I've got contacts for, and then Davo can invite the rest of you. Everybody put all your own contact shit in."

"Okay, so we've got a plan," Connor says, looking at Ryan and Jordan, then back at the screen. "Any questions?"

"How do you kill a demon?" Hanifin asks. "Asking for a friend."

Jordan laughs. "Aren't you the one with the magical knowing powers?"

"No, that's me," Skinner says. "And if I wake up knowing how, I'll let you guys know, but don't count on it."

"Yesterday he woke up knowing we were gonna get overcooked salmon for lunch," Hanifin adds. "You'd think it would be a super useful power, but most of the time it's super not."

"I do what I can," Skinner says, grinning. "When's the next meeting?"

Connor groans. "Hopefully we figure it all out soon, and we can have some sort of celebration meeting," he says. "For now, I think everyone should just figure out when they can do things with your smaller group, and we'll all just check in periodically."

"Davo's gonna Dad us all," Dylan translates, grinning cheerily. "Prepare to be asked if you finished your algebra homework."

"If you actually ever did your algebra homework, I wouldn't have had to bug you about it," Connor shoots back. "Any actual questions?"

There's a moment of silence before Jo speaks up. "I'll be in touch," he promises. "We'll figure all of this out."

"We will," Skinner says. "Talk to you all later, I guess."

They disconnect, and Taylor sighs. "I'm on research because I'm useless at magic, I get that," he says, sounding slightly grumpy. "But I was also useless in school, Davo, so don't expect much."

Jordan laughs. "You're good at hockey," he says fondly, and suddenly everyone else there is intruding on something private as they smile at each other. Ryan's used to aching for them, but this is a different ache than the one he got used to carrying around with him, an everyday sort of pain he's felt for others but is somehow magnified now.

Connor takes a quiet step towards Ryan and brushes their hands together, as if he's feeling it too. Ryan smiles at him gratefully, wondering how to break the silence.

He doesn't have to worry about it; something crashes and they all look around wildly. It takes a few seconds for Dylan to start laughing. "Sorry, sorry," he says, grinning as his face swims back into focus on his screen. "Mitch was thinking about—anyway, uh." He waves a little. "We'll see if we can get anything done on the demon murder front, and we'll let you know if we come up with anything."

"The fact that you automatically respond as if you're two people is kind of disconcerting," Jordan comments.

Dylan taps his forehead again. "Sorta am," he says cheerfully, then hangs up on them.

"Thanks for not putting me on his team," Taylor says after a moment. "I mean, I like the guy, but…"

Connor laughs. "Let me know if you figure anything out," he says.

Taylor promises and hangs up, and then it's just Ryan, Jordan, and Connor.

"Well," Jordan says, glancing back and forth between them. "Where do we start?"


	7. April: Puck

If there's one thing Puck has learned about humans, it's that they have far too much fear and absolutely not enough of it, all at the same time.

There's no surprise to be had in being discovered. The humans are more aware now, eyes peeled wider, looking into every corner for the monsters lurking within. Puck had explained it to Gary Bettman, when the man had made his proposal. The humans would know. The humans would find out. Puck had been interested in the offer, but uninterested in the possibility of another banishment, more time spent in an interminable void. There had been an answer for that; of course there had.

Gary Bettman had been conciliatory, oil oozing from every part of him. It had been almost as if he hadn't known that a creature of Puck's might could see through such things. He'd known, he explained, about everything in Edmonton; there had been nothing he could do at the time, he'd said almost regretfully, but he had another opportunity for Puck now. He knew that the humans would be watching, so he offered something that had been unattainable before.

He needed Puck in Denver for two years, he'd said, matter-of-fact. And at the end of those two years, he'd help Puck move elsewhere, and then elsewhere, and then elsewhere.

Gary Bettman is the only human Puck has ever encountered who has never once smelled of fear. Puck is still unsure what this means, whether he's the smartest of them all or their foremost fool. It doesn't matter much, since Puck had agreed to the terms, and now a part of Gary Bettman's soul resides with Puck, a guarantee of a sort.

Gary Bettman had bound Puck in Denver, and had then cast a concealment charm over the binding mark. It would hold, Puck knew; there was no honor in Gary Bettman, but there was power, and power could be trusted. It would hold, and it would eventually be discovered, and from there, it would be out of Puck's direct control.

And then the day comes. Puck knows some of these humans, can feel Edmonton rolling off of them. There is fear; one of them is the one who bargains, and Puck wonders again about the purpose of fear if it doesn't warn humans away from danger, even when it's felt down to the bone. The humans perform their spell, and Puck knows the instant they find the concealment charm, rip it away, expose themselves to the full brunt of Puck's wrath.

One of them goes down, and there is some satisfaction in that, Puck thinks. The others gather around him, and one of the Edmonton humans, the one who burns, breaks Puck's hold. It's fine, Puck thinks as they hurry to take their fallen friend away. The barrier is broken, and Gary Bettman will know of it, and Puck will be safe here until the time comes to move.

It was fear that drove the humans to search, Puck knows. It's somehow still startling when one of them pauses and turns back—the one who finds, Puck realises—and lays a hand slowly, carefully, onto the binding mark.

He casts a new concealment charm.

Puck muses as the human stands and nods before hurrying away. They're surprising, humans are; their fear drove them to look, but Puck is not the only thing they fear. Covering the mark again was not done to protect Puck.

Gary Bettman will not know, now. They will not have to face him until they're ready.


	8. April: Jo

Jo's problem, he thinks, is that he really has no idea how to _start_.

He's supposed to be working with Taylor Hall ( _Taylor Hall_ , part of his mind keeps repeating over and over, which isn't helping) and Nate and Gabe on figuring out who let Puck out. He's got a personal stake in it, he thinks; part of him wonders if that's why he was given this task, but he knows that everyone involved has a personal stake at this point.

Nate sighs over their Skype call. "Six more games," he says like a promise. "I'll come out and cheer you on while you wipe the floor with the Caps, and we can work on it together."

"We're not making the playoffs," Jo says, then wishes he could snatch the words back. Nate's eyes widen a little, but he doesn't say anything, and Jo loves him hard. He shakes his head and sighs a little. "We don't have it this year. It's not worth pushing, not now."

"Okay," Nate says quietly, after giving that a moment to settle. "Okay. Then six more games, and we'll go back home and figure it out there."

"Yeah," Jo says, leaning back a little against the sofa. It's nice, knowing he's finally proven himself here. He's got the feeling that his next contract will be somewhere else, but he'd made his peace with that a long, long time ago.

"Are you coming to Halifax, or should I get my ticket to Montreal?" Nate asks, smiling a little. "Either's fine."

Jo takes a deep breath. "I was thinking," he says, trying to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. "Maybe… you like Quebec, right?"

"Yes?" Nate says, as if he's unsure it's the right answer. "What were you thinking, babe?"

"That I could come to Halifax for a little while," he says, drumming his fingers lightly against his knee. "And we could take a road trip up back up into Quebec. We could find somewhere for us, maybe."

It's amazing to be able to see the reaction break across Nate's face, the confusion giving way to excitement. "Yeah? You wanna?"

"Yeah," Jo confirms, smiling. "Let's find a place."

He's been building a home with Nate for over half a decade, in one way or another. He's comfortable in the knowledge that Nate's his past and his present and his future, and it's been fine, finding time together between their different summer schedules, but Jo's done with that. He wants to settle in with Nate, to have a space that's theirs that they don't have to carve out of someone else's home.

"Awesome," Nate says, smile so wide that Jo thinks for a second that he could happily build a home right there. "We can get a yard, and maybe a dog."

"Maybe a cat," Jo says, just to be contrary.

Nate doesn't quite grimace. "Maybe,'" he says dutifully, and if a dog person agreeing to maybe get a cat isn't proof of love, Jo doesn't know what is.

They just kind of quietly bask in each other's presence for a little while; it's nice to have someone you can be quiet with sometimes, too. Jo's less surprised than he maybe should be when he hears someone knocking on Nate's door. Jo sighs. "Do you need to go?"

"No, it's," Nate starts, standing up. He walks out of frame, and a moment later, Gabe and Calvin Pickard are waving at him. Nate squeezes back into the frame. "I figured we could maybe talk?"

Jo laughs. "Sure," he says. "Any thoughts?"

Gabe gestures grandly at Pickard. "I brought a goalie," he says. "And you know what they say about goalies."

He waggles his eyebrows, and Jo snorts. "They're good at finding things," he says, remembering Bishop and his locator spell.

It makes Gabe pout, and he turns and jabs at Pickard's arm. "I thought you said that was a goalie thing!"

"Oh, hey," Pickard says mildly. "Looks like he's met a goalie before."

Nate is very obviously barely not laughing, and Jo grins. "I've met a couple," he says. "So you think you can use your goalie powers to find whoever did this?"

Pickard shakes his head. "I don't think it'll be that simple," he says, sounding regretful. "If we get close, though, or if we find something to go on, I can probably help narrow it down from there."

"I'm guessing 'we think it's someone in hockey' isn't narrow enough to start with, huh," Nate asks, though it's more like a statement than an actual question.

"Yeah, no," Pickard says. "We need more."

"I'm texting Hallsy," Gabe announced, picking up his phone. "He should be in on this."

"I think we also need to look at whether you guys were targeted, or if you were just convenient," Jo says as Gabe taps at his phone. "Obviously, whoever let it out had a reason for doing it, but was the reason to wreck your season, or was it something else?"

"I honestly don't know which option would piss me off more," Pickard says thoughtfully, and Gabe makes a triumphant noise.

"Patch Hallsy in," he says. "I don't actually know how to do that on Skype."

Nate rolls his eyes and leans forward, and a moment later, the screen rearranges itself for Hallsy. "Sup," he greets, and Jo thinks that they make quite a team: the five of them knowing the playoffs aren't happening, but still trying to end the season on a good note. It's depressing as hell, Jo realises.

"We need a code name," Nate says before anyone else can respond, and Jo and Gabe groan in tandem. Nate ignores them both, focusing on Hallsy, who had lit up at the words. "Any ideas?"

"Invasion of the Body Snatchers," Pickard says, blinking innocently when everyone looks at him. "What? It's an idea. You didn't say it had to be a _good_ one."

"How about we save that for later?" Jo interjects. "Hallsy, we were talking about how to figure this out."

Hallsy sighs somewhat explosively. "Man, I have no idea. It's like I told Davo: I'm no good at researching or whatever."

"I don't think any of us would list that in the top five," Gabe says, glancing around. "Maybe not the top ten."

"Like, it has to be somebody in hockey," Hallsy says. "That much I've got, but I think everyone knows that by now."

Nate nods. "It's someone who knew what happened in Edmonton, probably," he volunteers. "Otherwise it's just way too convenient that it's the same demon, and that it was hidden so much better this time."

"So probably not a player," Hallsy goes on. "I mean, none of the Edmonton guys would let that fucking thing out again, and nobody else who knew what we were dealing with would, either."

"I honestly can't think of a single player who'd voluntarily let anything like that out," Pickard observes. "Even the guys who are known to be shit-disturbers. We've all got respect enough for rinks, eh?"

"Not a player," Jo muses. "So, what, did the GM of one of your rivals decide to take you out of contention?"

Gabe snorts. "If you're going to target someone in the Central Division, why us?" he asks. "I mean, I have faith in our guys, but it's not like we're the Hawks. Or the Preds. Or the Blues, or..."

"Which brings us back to it not actually being about us," Nate says, making a face. "So the next question is, did our mysterious bad guy pick Denver specifically, or is that just where Puck was closest to when Bad Guy found it?"

"I'm nobody's idea of a magical expert," Hallsy says, so dry that Jo can't help his snort. "But from what I understand, it's not like someone could just trip across it and accidentally set Puck loose on the world again. They'd have to be looking, and if someone's already looking, there's probably a reason."

"Damn," Gabe mutters. "So we were specifically targeted, but not because of who we are." He pauses. "Anyone got a clue as to why?"

Nobody says a word, and Jo wishes he was more surprised.


	9. April: Dylan

_hey man, this is jo drouin, in case you haven't put all the names in your phone yet_

_just wanted to give you a heads up that i gave your number to ovi_

Dylan stares at his phone as if expecting it to give him more information, like whether or not he should be expecting a text, or if he's supposed to reach out. Unhelpfully, the screen goes dark.

Mitch is pushing at the edge of Dylan's mind curiously. They've gotten better at the whole… mind thing, whatever it is. It's not actually that they can read each other's minds all the time, but if they're both focusing, they can get a pretty clear picture of what the other one is thinking. It had gotten a lot stronger after Christmas, when they'd traded their magic purposely, and the more time they spend living with each other a constant presence in their minds, the easier it becomes to read more and more.

Dylan stares at his phone and reaches for Mitch, thinking about the text and Ovi and the very real possibility that he's gonna be at practice tomorrow and his phone will ring and he'll have to debate whether or not to risk Coach's wrath to answer it, because _Alexander Ovechkin_. Mitch laughs, so clear and bright that Dylan can almost hear it, and it makes Dylan smile down at his phone. He catches his own reflection and smiles wider.

So Mitch makes him happy. Sue him, or whatever.

He's jerked out of Mitch's head and his own at the same time when his phone rings. It's a number he doesn't recognise, and he doesn't even hesitate before answering it, even though he's a little terrified. "Hello?"

"Strome!" Ovechkin bellows cheerfully. "How are you! This is Alex Ovechkin. You call me Alex, or maybe Ovi."

Dylan was expecting the call, but he still finds himself blinking. "Um. Hi?"

Ovi laughs. "I sign something for you next time we play," he promises, and it should sound mocking, teasing, but instead it just sounds lighthearted. "Jo Drouin tell me you gonna kill a demon. You need help?"

"Gods, yes," Dylan says, closing his eyes and letting his shoulders slump a little. "I'm working with a few other guys, but none of us has the slightest clue as to what we're gonna do."

"I have secret weapon," Ovi says. Dylan would expect that to sound mysterious from anyone else, or maybe secretive, but from Ovi it's somehow just a statement of fact. "Gonna be hard to help lots with playoffs coming up, but we find a time to meet."

Dylan nods a little, as if this isn't easily in the top five most surreal moments of his life. "I, uh," he starts, then flushes a little. "I mean, you don't know who you're playing yet, but I'm heading back to Toronto after the season wraps up, and the other guys are gonna come up, too. Uh, Jeff Skinner and Noah Hanifin, from the Hurricanes."

"And one more?" Ovi asks. "Jo tell me there are four."

"Mitch Marner, from the Leafs," Dylan says. "My, um. Other half." He's not getting into how literal that is with someone he barely knows, but he also knows better than to basically invite someone to spend time with the two of them without warning them first.

"Great," Ovi says, and Dylan can almost hear him beaming. "Maybe we play Ottawa first round. Can you drive there?"

"Yeah," Dylan says. It's not like it's next door, but it's not an impossible drive at all. "We can road trip up there, if that's where you'll be."

"We play Ottawa," Ovi says firmly.

"You can't just," Dylan starts, but he stops himself quickly. For all he knows, Ovi can absolutely decide that the Caps and the Sens are going to play in the first round and then somehow make it so.

Ovi laughs. "We figure out a time," he says. "Tell me when Hurricane boys are there, when Marner not busy. We find a time, and I introduce you to Backy."

"Backy," Dylan repeats, a little faintly. "Nicklas Backstrom, you mean?"

"I mean secret weapon," Ovi says. This time it's definitely smug. "Nicky special. He knows things."

"Okay," Dylan says. How else could he possibly respond to that?

"Okay," Ovi repeats. "You put my number in your phone, okay? If you need, if anything weird happen, you call me." The humor has dropped from his tone. "Even if it the middle of playoffs. You need help, you call me."

"I'm not gonna fuck up your playoffs," Dylan protests.

"We good enough at that by ourselves," Ovi agrees. "I know people to call. You don't do this alone, you hear me, little coyote?"

"I'm 6'3"," Dylan says automatically.

"I weigh whole midget player more than you," Ovi shoots back, amusement back in his voice. "Put my number in your phone. Bear face, Christmas tree, Ovi, basketball, basketball."

Dylan pauses for a second, trying to place the emojis. "Uh, okay, your mom played basketball," he says slowly.

"You smart!" Ovi crows. "Everybody ask why, say, 'Ovi, you play hockey!'" He snorts. "Like I _forget_."

Dylan laughs at that, because he can only imagine what Ovi's responses to that have been over the years. "What about the Christmas tree?"

"Not ask about bear?" Ovi asks, voice way too innocent to be for real.

"Nah, man, I've seen your playoff beard," Dylan says. It might be Alex Ovechkin, but hockey players learn to chirp along with passing and shooting. It's his first language when it comes to hockey.

Apparently it's Ovi's, too, because he lets out a surprised laugh. "I like you," he proclaims. "Christmas tree because Christmas is best. I buy present for my wife today, have to hide it forever, so I'm thinking about Christmas trees."

"You could give it to her now and buy another one later," Dylan suggests. He's definitely the type of person who does almost all of their shopping in the week before Christmas; he can't handle keeping things secret for much longer than that.

"Maybe," Ovi says. "We see. You let me know when you come to Ottawa, okay?"

"I will," Dylan promises. "Thanks for… helping, I guess."

Ovi sighs a little. "This league kind of shit some days," he says. "But I still love it."

And yeah, Dylan can agree with that.

-0-

Dylan wasn't exactly expecting it to be easy to coordinate the meeting, but it's actually ridiculously difficult. He's still trying to figure out how to get everyone in the same room for an hour when he's in Mitch's condo in Toronto, not even eight hours after he finished all of his exit interviews. It doesn't help that the Caps are going to play Boston in the first round, not Ottawa; apparently Dylan had been right, and Ovi can't just make things happen.

"Babe," Mitch says, putting his hand over Dylan's phone so he can't see his calendar app. "The dates aren't gonna change just because you really want them to."

Just to be contrary, Dylan keeps glaring. "You don't know that."

"Pretty sure I do," Mitch says, clearly amused. "I would absolutely know if you had developed some kind of extramagical power that lets you control calendars." He gently reaches out and taps the side of Dylan's head, and Dylan finally breaks, smiling up at him.

"Fine," he says, sighing a little. "So the Caps playing the Bruins first is messing with my scheduling abilities. I really wanted to get this done now, not between rounds."

"Maybe," Mitch muses, taking Dylan's phone and looking at his calendar thoughtfully. "D'you think Hanny and Skinner can change their plans?"

"Probably," Dylan replies. "Why, what are you thinking?"

Mitch taps at the phone before turning it around. "We fly down to DC," he suggests. "Tomorrow, maybe. See if they can meet before the series starts and things get crazy."

"That could work," Dylan says, grabbing for his phone. "I'll text Ovi, you text Hanny?"

"Soon I'm gonna have his phone number, too, and you won't be able to be all 'oh, I'm just gonna casually text Alexander Ovechkin,'" Mitch says, but he's grinning as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and sits on the sofa beside Dylan. "Let's get this set up. I need a nap."

"You always need a nap," Dylan says. "And a sandwich."

"I'm not you," Mitch shoots back, leaning in to peck him on the cheek. "I love you, but sometimes people on the internet put up gifs of you next to gifs of raccoons, and I can see where they're coming from."

"Divorce," Dylan says, pulling up his text history with Ovi. He starts typing. "You can have your magic back."

"No givsie-backsies," Mitch singsongs. His phone beeps. "Hanny says they're good to meet us in DC. They haven't left Raleigh yet, so they can just change their flight."

Ovi doesn't reply right away, so Dylan puts his phone down. "I think it's our best shot at getting us all together, even if it's between games," he says. "You book us something, I'll go pack?"

"Sounds good," Mitch says, bringing an app up on his phone. "Wanna head out tonight or tomorrow?"

"You're the one with the last-minute planning abilities," Dylan says. "I'm in charge of, like, making sure we have enough shirts. You worry about the plane side of things."

"I'm glad you're good at hockey," Mitch calls as Dylan heads for their bedroom. He can feel the warm wave of affection Mitch is practically shoving at him, and he smiles as he pulls out a suitcase.

Ten minutes later, Dylan rolls the suitcase into the hallway. "When are we leaving?"

"Half an hour," Mitch replies. "I booked us a hotel room for five days. I'm hoping that's enough time to get down there and meet at least once, hopefully twice."

Dylan picks up his phone; Ovi has texted back quite a few times. He reads them, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Ovi's very excited," he summarises. "And he says he'll get us all tickets to a game if we want."

"See, now, I don't know if we're supposed to take him up on that," Mitch starts.

"But you want to anyway," Dylan finishes. "It's Ovi. We can tell people we're studying up on playoff teams so we can take what we learned back to our teams, blah blah."

"You say 'blah blah' like we're both not gonna actually do that," Mitch says, grinning.

Dylan waves a hand in the air. "Details," he says lightly as he texts back, making Mitch laugh. "We'll see a game, we'll meet Ovi and Backstrom, we'll hopefully have more of a clue when we fly back?"

"That's the plan," Mitch confirms. "Hanny and Skinner are gonna fly in tomorrow morning. It's, like, an hour from Raleigh to DC."

"I'd say I'm jealous, but apparently the humidity there makes people want to ban clothing," Dylan says. "It's not great here, but, like. Ew."

"Ew," Mitch agrees. "As far as I know, they're bringing clothing. If they don't, I elect you to take them naked shopping."

"The sacrifices I make for you," Dylan says, mock-sighing. By the look on Mitch's face, he can absolutely tell how fond Dylan is anyway.

"That's why I love you," Mitch says. He leans in to press a kiss to Dylan's mouth, and Dylan catches his wrist and tugs gently as Mitch pulls away. Mitch sways back into him and Dylan kisses him slow and sweet, memorising all over again how Mitch feels in his arms.

"Love you too," Dylan murmurs when he pulls back, resting his forehead against Mitch's.

Mitch gives him a small, devastating smile. "I know," he says, reaching for Dylan's hand. He threads his fingers through the bracelet of his own magic around Dylan's wrist, and they stand there together, a probably-endless feedback loop of comfort and happiness and love.

Dylan's phone beeps several times in quick succession, and Dylan can feel his own reluctance mirrored right back at him as they draw away from each other. His phone reveals several messages from Ovi, who's excited they're coming; Dylan wonders how much of it is actually Ovi, and how much of it is a front. Not even Mitch is happy that much of the time.

"We're all set," he says, looking up at Mitch. "Let's get this show on the road."


	10. April: Noah

Noah's had some pretty weird moments over the course of his life, but he can say with absolute certainty that walking into Alexander Ovechkin's house for a demon-killing consult with him and Nicklas Backstrom tops them all.

"Hurricanes!" Ovechkin booms, gesturing grandly around his living room. "Sit, sit. We waiting for little Leaf and baby Coyote."

Noah snickers. "Wow, I _really_ want to see Stromer's reaction to that."

"He not the happiest," Ovechkin admits, smile firmly in place. "I tell him, too bad, I bigger than you, I make rules."

"Solid," Jeff says, smiling easily at Ovechkin. He turns to face Backstrom. "How's it going?"

"So far, so good," Backstrom replies. "Time will tell, though."

"You said it," Noah mutters.

Backstrom looks like he wants to reply, but the doorbell goes off before he can. "That should be the others," he says, standing from his place on the sofa. "Have a seat. I'll be back in a minute."

Ovechkin smiles widely as they take the loveseat. "I'm glad we can fit this in," he says. "Gonna kick ass in playoffs, but this… I'm glad we can meet now."

"Me too," Jeff says. "We need all the help we can get."

"We help," Ovechkin says confidently.

Stromer and Marns walk in then, followed by Backstrom. Noah barely has to look at them to know they're probably mentally holding hands or something; they're just ridiculously attuned to each other in a way Noah's never seen two people be before. His grandparents have been married for almost fifty years, and even _they_ don't look like that.

"We're all here," Backstrom says unnecessarily, sinking back into his seat. "Now. I hear we're going to kill a demon?"

"I mean, that's the goal," Marns says, glancing at Stromer before moving to sit in one of the recliners. "Last time we all talked, though, nobody really had a plan on how to do that."

"I can help," Backstrom says, voice even. "As long as it's not one of the upper caste, I can take care of it."

There's a moment of dead silence. It's Stromer who breaks it; there's a twist to his lips that makes Noah think he lost some sort of mental coin flip. "How?"

Backstrom smiles slightly, and that's all the warning Noah gets before reality ripples a little bit in the room. Noah bites his lip hard, but he doesn't miss Marns' sharp inhale.

"What are you?" Marns asks, voice far more even than Noah thinks his own would be.

Backstrom smiles, and Noah knows instantly that this is why Jeff had threatened to call Backstrom on Landeskog: whatever Landeskog is, Backstrom's that but more. They have the same poorly-defined edges, the same sense of _other_ that Noah can't pin down. Landeskog had still seemed human, under it all; Backstrom… doesn't. Not in the slightest.

"I am fae," Backstrom says, voice higher, lighter, a little hypnotic. "Well, half-fae. Enough that I can take on a demon."

Noah turns his gaze to Jeff. "Give a guy a little warning," he hisses.

Jeff just smiles at him. "You could've asked," he says simply, and yeah, fine. He _could've_ , and he knows that Jeff wouldn't tell him unless he did, but still.

"You don't have anything to fear from me," Backstrom says. Noah blinks and the glamour is back; all of Backstrom is where Noah expects him to be. He's much better at it than Landeskog, Noah notes distantly: even though Noah knows, there's no trace of it to be seen. "I'm not fae enough to trap you into anything, nor enough to want to." His mouth is twitching like he wants to smile. "Not in the human world, anyway."

"And you can kill a demon," Stromer says. They're rolling with this far better than they have any right to, Noah thinks a little uncharitably. Then again, they've already faced Puck down. Their tolerance level for weird shit is probably several steps above Noah's.

"Most," Backstrom says. "The strongest ones are too much for me to handle, but even in that case, I can provide help."

"We know its name, if that helps," Jeff says, shifting beside Noah. "Or, well. We know the name it gave last time."

"Last time," Ovechkin repeats, leaning forward to rejoin the conversation. He's frowning a little. "There was _last time_?"

"You've been to Edmonton before," Noah says. "Tell me it didn't feel different this year."

Backstrom says something low and vehement under his breath. His eyes are a little wider than normal, which Noah figures is Backstrom-body-language for "holy fucking shit."

"That was you?" he asks, sitting up straighter even as Ovechkin leans farther in. "You got rid of the Edmonton demon?"

"You knew there was a demon in Edmonton?" Stromer asks, looking surprised. "I thought all the warding and shit kept people from noticing."

"Very little escapes my notice," Backstrom says slowly. "But if that's the demon behind the current possession…"

He trails off, and Noah feels the hope that had been bubbling in his stomach turn flat and sour. "You can't help," he finishes.

"I can _help_ ," Backstrom says, shaking his head minutely. "But I cannot kill it, not on my own."

"What about Gabe?" Jeff asks. "Could the two of you do it together?"

"No," Backstrom says heavily. "The demon is… very powerful. Even with the combined power of all of those of us in the League, it's not enough."

"Damn," Marns says, slumping back against the recliner. Stromer strokes at something on his wrist, and Marns throws him a small smile. "I was really hoping…"

"We still help," Ovechkin says firmly when Mitch doesn't finish his thought. "Okay, so maybe we not kill it all by Backy's self. We still gonna help."

"It's a start," Noah says, before any of them can get down on themselves. "It's more of a plan than we had earlier today."

"It is," Stromer agrees. "Now we just have to figure out where to go from here."

"Friday," Ovechkin says decisively. "We all think it over, Backy and I crush Bruins, we meet again Friday."

Noah can see Jeff fighting a smile. "Okay, sounds like a plan," he says. "Don't let Chara eat you."

Ovechkin scoffs. "He old and slow," he says dismissively. A smile flashes over his face, and he points at Stromer. "He _two_ midget players bigger than you, though."

"Fuck off," Stromer says grumpily. Marns loses it laughing, and even if he's not in the joke, Noah laughs too.

-0-

"So we need a plan B," Noah says later that night. They're all in one hotel room; Stromer is flopped across one bed like a starfish while Marns sits against the headboard, legs outstretched right across his back, while Noah and Jeff sit on the other bed like actually functioning human adults, thanks.

"We need a plan A-and-a-half," Stromer says, turning his face so he's not talking directly into the comforter. "Backstrom said he could still help, even if he can't just kill it."

"We don't know how much help he can give," Jeff interjects. "And he was really sure that there was no way for him to kill it, even with help."

"Even with all of them in the League," Stromer paraphrases. "How many are there, exactly?"

"It's a Swedish thing," Noah says, half-remembering a conversation with Landeskog. "Sort of."

"It's definitely not a Swedish thing," Marns objects. "That's, like, Irish mythology."

"Sure, man, whatever you say," Noah says, raising an eyebrow. "Dare you to go tell Backstrom he's wrong."

Marns rolls his eyes, but Stromer hums a little. Marns' attention immediately snaps to the back of his head, and Noah doesn't miss the way his toes poke at Stromer's back beneath his shirt. Noah's no expert on what happens when you overlap brains with someone else, but he's guessing that physical contact makes the bond stronger. It makes sense, as much as any of it makes sense.

"Backstrom's only half-fae, he said," Marns says after a moment. If you know what you're looking for, you can sort of tell that Marns and Stromer have something weird going on; Marns talks more quickly when he's excited or worried about something now, and Stromer's never been the kind of guy to keep his mouthguard in when he's skating, but now it's like it's only there for him to chew on. It's really, really bizarre, Noah thinks. "Maybe the fae aren't Swedish originally, but their kids can be whatever."

"Makes sense," Jeff says. "I mean, people move around all the time. If all of the fae can make themselves look human as well as Backy can, then they could be all over the place and we'd never know it."

There's a moment of silence before Stromer snorts. "That is possibly the least comforting thing I've heard today, and I'd like to remind you that it's only been a few hours since Backstrom said he couldn't kill Puck."

"Landeskog's not as good at it," Noah offers. "I mean, once you know, you can sort of see through the disguise."

"So all I have to do is ask everyone I meet if they're part fae," Stromer says. He's probably rolling his eyes, but the comforter is bunched up a little around his face, so Noah can't actually tell. "That doesn't sound dangerous at all."

Noah would throw a pillow at him, except he's one hundred percent sure that Stromer would just lay on it, and then he'd never get it back. "So if we don't need a whole new plan, then how do you figure we can fix the one we've got?" he asks instead.

"I'm not sure," Stromer replies. "Not yet."

"Maybe," Jeff says slowly, squinting a little. "If there are fae, if there are people who have… other kinds of family trees, then maybe we can find someone else who can help in a different way."

Marns nods. "That makes sense, but it kind of brings us back to what Dylan was just saying. It's not like we can go around asking people if they're partially inhuman. I mean, first of all, rude, but also possibly dangerous."

"What if I could help?" Jeff asks cautiously. "I'm… partially inhuman, is that what you said?"

Marns blinks a few times, and Noah can almost see him putting the puzzle pieces together. "Right, you're the friend who knows things," he says. "Okay. Cool."

"Can you control it?" Stromer asks. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, dislodging Marns' feet, but he picks them up and deposits them in his lap almost absently when he settles. "Like, if you have a certain question, can you make sure it gets answered?"

"Not really," Jeff hedges. Noah bumps their shoulders together, and Jeff shoots him a quick smile. "I can't get specific things answered right away, but ever since this whole thing started, I've mostly been getting answers to questions related to demon things."

"So we wait and hope?" Marns asks, frowning. "Not that I don't trust you, man, but I'd rather have more of a plan than 'wing it.' We did that last time, and that thing broke my leg in three places."

Jeff shivers a little, and honestly, Noah doesn't blame him. "I'm not saying we shouldn't look for other options," he says. "But if I'm thinking a lot about people who can help us out, I might wake up _knowing_ who can help us out."

"Okay, that's plan B," Stromer decides. "Plan A-and-a-half is hoping that everyone else is having better luck than we are, and that whatever they find out will help us with our thing."

"Anyone else feeling like we might need a plan C?" Noah asks, grinning, and Stromer laughs and flips him off.


	11. April: Taylor

Objectively, Taylor gets why he's stuck doing research. He'd said as much to Davo when he'd broken them all up into groups, and he hadn't been lying: he's no good at the magic side of things, but he's also no good at the research part. He's good at hockey, and he's great at Jordan, even when Jordan's not great to himself. They're working on it.

It's just frustrating, he thinks. He doesn't know where to start with the research thing, and he gets along fine with the guys he's working with, but he knows his limits. If he's gonna be stuck Googling things for the other guys while they do the actual work, then he'd rather be doing it with Jordan.

He figures he's earned the right to be a little selfish when it comes to his relationship.

There's a special ringtone on his phone for everyone involved in the demon fiasco; Taylor jumps every time it goes off, thinking half-formed thoughts about something going wrong or someone figuring something out. It's no different this time, and Taylor's just glad nobody's in his place to see him fumble with his phone. "Hey," he answers without checking the caller ID.

"Hey, Hallsy," someone who's definitely not an Oiler or one of the guys on his team says. He pulls the phone back and glances at the screen, wondering why, of everyone in the group, Jeff Skinner is calling him. "Uh, you busy?"

Taylor raises his eyebrows and looks around his apartment. "Nah, man," he says. "What's on your mind?"

"Well," Skinner hedges. "You know how I sometimes know things?"

"I've been told," Taylor says. He sort of wishes he hadn't already raised his eyebrows, because they're already at their limit, but he wants to raise them more.

Skinner sighs. "So I know something about you," he says. "And I'm willing to bet it's something you don't know about yourself."

"Not gonna lie, man, you're freaking me out," Taylor says. He's drumming his fingers a little too aggressively against his knee. "Am I sick or something?"

"No," Skinner says. "You're, um. Your mom's like, super good at magic, right?"

"Yeah," Taylor says. "And I take after my dad, who... isn't." It's an understatement; Taylor can remember his mom's magic faltering a little around his dad, like he was some kind of natural damper for it. Taylor's not quite _that_ bad.

"You actually take after your mom," Skinner says, like he can't keep the words in. "Like. A lot."

Taylor laughs. "Okay, I don't know what your success rate is with your knowing-things-power is, but it just took a knock, man."

"It didn't," Skinner says, quiet but sure. "You should probably call your mom. I don't know all the details, and what I do know… it should probably come from her, not some dude you barely know."

Taylor sighs. "I reserve the right to tell you I told you so," he says. "I'll call her."

"Call me back when you're done," Skinner says immediately.

It makes something nervous writhe in Taylor's stomach, but he quickly promises and hangs up. He stares at his phone for a little while; he's never really dreaded calling his mom before, but something in him is wondering if Skinner's right. He _can't_ be—Taylor very clearly remembers testing blank on the magical scale—but at the same time…

The phone rings twice before Mom answers. "Hey, kiddo," she says warmly, just like she always does, and some of the tension drains out of his shoulders. "What's up?"

"Not much,"he says slowly. "I had a weird phone call from a friend of mine."

She laughs a little. "Oh, this should be good," she says, clearly amused. Taylor's told her enough stories over the years that he's not surprised.

"He says I'm magic," Taylor blurts out. "And that I should ask you about it, because I should hear the details from you."

He's expecting her to laugh it off, to remind him of how the doctor's eyebrows had shot into his hairline at the absolute lack of magical ability in him. Instead, Taylor's able to slowly count to ten in his head before she sighs.

"Well," she says. "Honestly, Taylor, I was kind of wondering when we'd have to have this conversation."

Taylor grips his phone tightly. "Uh," he says. "What conversation?"

"Honey," Mom says, and Taylor jumps and drops his phone, because _that's his mom_ standing four feet in front of him. He's pretty sure she'd been at her own house half the city away about three seconds ago.

"Hang up the phone, Taylor," she says gently, not moving towards him at all. He nods a little jerkily and does it, placing his phone face-down on the sofa beside him. "Can I sit down?"

"How are you here?" Taylor asks. His voice is definitely higher than normal.

"I'll explain," she says.

"Am I magic?" he asks. He sounds younger, kind of. Scared, too, maybe.

"No," she says firmly. He breathes a little easier, at least, because that's something that he's always known about himself. She smiles a little and adds, "Not the way you're thinking, anyway."

He blinks at her, hearing what she's saying but not really able to connect it to himself. "But I am magic."

"Can I sit?" she asks again, and a whole lot of him wonders all at once why she's even asking. She's his _mom_ ; of course she can sit. He just nods a little, though, and she smiles at him as she walks over, super normal, and sits on the other side of the sofa.

"What," he finally says, mostly because he doesn't know how else to start.

She laughs a little. "You don't have magic the way everyone else you know does," she says. "That's always been true, and it always will be."

"There's a but coming," Taylor says. He knows it with the same certainty he'd had as a kid, sneaking in after curfew and knowing he was busted. _I'm not mad, kiddo, but…_

"It's kind of a doozy," she admits, taking a deep breath. "I'm…"

She sort of stares at the picture Taylor's got hanging on the wall next to the window; it's him and Jordan and Ryan, sacked out on the sofa in Ryan's place in Edmonton. It's from before everything went to shit, and Taylor's always had it, but now he focuses on it too.

"So there's no way to say this without it sounding completely ridiculous," she finally says. Taylor nods, keeping his attention on the photo. "You'd think with 25 years to prepare, I'd have some way to tell you that I'm actually a minor goddess, but nope, I've got nothing."

Taylor nods again, then goes completely still. He backs it up in his head, runs through it again, but he can't make the words sound like anything other than what he thinks he heard. He turns slowly; Mom's got a tiny smile on her face, one eyebrow raised. "A what," Taylor asks faintly.

"A goddess," Mom repeats. "A really minor one, I swear, but…" She trails off and shrugs a little bit. "You're not magical, honey. You're half-god. A demigod, if you want the technical word."

"Like Hercules," he blurts out, because for some reason that's all he can think about, the Disney movie with the super-strong baby bouncing all over the place.

That, at least, makes Mom laugh. "Like Hercules," she agrees. "Except not so much with the strength."

Taylor nods a little faintly. "So," he says. He comes up short, though; he doesn't know what question to ask. He's not really sure if he actually wants any of his questions answered.

"Let me start at the beginning," she says gently, and Taylor just nods again.

-0-

Mom stays for a few hours; Taylor spends most of it going between nodding and staring, listening as she tells him about her life. About his life, too, about how his parents had decided not to tell him until he was older, since his dad's magic-dampening thing was so strong that it would cover up anything Taylor had inherited.

"Why," he finally asks. "Why didn't you say anything about Edmonton? Did you not know something was fucked up there?"

She sighs. "I didn't know how bad it was," she says quietly. "I should have looked more, but the truth of it, Taylor, is that I just didn't. It looked like a curse, and so I assumed it was, and that they were working on it."

"That's what they assumed, too," he says, trying not to sound bitter. "I could've helped, Mom. I could have _stopped_ it."

"Only sort of," she says, sounding a little tired. "I mean, what you can do… it's not magic. And keep in mind that I'm not a hundred percent sure about this, since you've never actually used your abilities before."

"Abilities," Taylor echoes. "Like, more than one."

"Maybe," she says. "I only know about one thing for sure."

"Which is…" Taylor prompts.

She sighs a little, smiling at him. "You can bend things to your will," she says. "When you were about ten months old, your dad ran out to the store, and I was a little too slow on the bottle for your liking." She shrugs. "You yelled, and then you were holding the bottle."

"Oh my god," Taylor breathes out.

"That's pretty much what I said," she agrees. "And you weren't sure what to do with the bottle once you had it, so you threw it on the floor. I had to fish it out from under the sofa."

Taylor laughs. "Wow. And then you had to, like, make a new one? I bet I wasn't happy at all."

Mom gives him an unimpressed look. "Honey, you were ten months old. I was long past the idea that everything was going to kill you. I just rinsed off the top and handed it back to you."

It makes him snort; sounds like Mom, for sure. "So," he says hesitantly, looking around. His eyes land on last month's issue of _The Hockey News_ , sitting on his coffee table. "I can just... make things come to me?"

"Yes," she says simply. "Before you give yourself a headache trying, though, let me see if you can do something easier."

"Okay," Taylor says eagerly, leaning forward a little. He's still freaking out, sure, but he's also super excited, and suddenly that's overwhelming the part of him that's going to want to yell later.

"Watch," Mom instructs. She holds her hand out flat; and before he can even blink, there's a small, smooth-looking rock in her palm. She smiles. "You should be able to… manifest things, I guess."

Taylor gapes at her. "Why do you buy, like, anything ever?"

She laughs and tips her hand over, and as soon as the rock stops touching her skin, it vanishes. "Doesn't work like that, kiddo," she says. "I can make anything I want to make, but as soon as I stop touching it, it stops being."

"Oh, yikes," Taylor says. "Yeah, I probably don't want to make awesome game-day suits, then."

"Definitely not," she agrees. "Start small. Imagine it in your mind, and then imagine yourself holding it."

Taylor thinks about the way the rock had looked: maybe two centimeters wide, not perfectly round, kind of a dull gray color. He holds his hand out and thinks about how the rock would look there, sitting gently in his palm, and then he yells and shakes his hand as the cool weight of the rock settles there.

Mom cracks up. "That's pretty much what you did with the bottle," she gasps out. "But hey, you did it!"

"I did it," Taylor says wonderingly, staring at his palm. He holds it out again, a little more confident this time, and pictures the rock there. This time, he brings his hand up to his face and watches it materialize out of thin air, and he can't help the smile breaking across his face. "Holy shit, I'm magic!"

"You're magic," Mom confirms, smiling at him. "Sorry it took me a quarter of a century to tell you about it."

"I might be mad later," Taylor tells her. Honesty's always the best policy with Mom; he can't remember not knowing that.

"That's okay," she says. "You have every right to be."

He nods, still staring at the rock. He slowly brings his other hand up, pinching the rock between his fingers and lifting it away from his palm. It feels like any other rock he's ever held in his life, but when he lets go of it a few inches above his palm, it disappears.

"I can't decide if it's cool or if it's freaky," he decides, looking back at Mom. "I mean, obviously it's cool, but how is it even useful?"

Mom opens her mouth, then closes it and shakes her head with a smile. "I was about to use a cooking example," she says. "How about a hockey one? Imagine you were playing street hockey with some friends, and just when you lined up for the game-winning overtime shot, your stick broke."

"New stick," Taylor says instantly, eyes widening. "Oh, man."

"Or," Mom says, smile fading from her face. "If you were facing down a demon, you could make something to… stop it. Block it. Depends on the demon, really."

"Oh," Taylor says, thinking hard. "Can you, like… stab a demon?"

Mom's eyes widen a little before she snorts. "Why am I even surprised?" she asks, as if Taylor's gonna give her a good answer to that. "I mean, you can try. I have no idea how effective it'll be, though."

"Yeah, that might be a bad idea," he replies. "I'm guess part of my half-god status doesn't include super-healing, since I've been hurt a bunch."

"Sorry, kiddo," Mom says. "I don't have any healing powers of my own, so I couldn't pass those on to you."

"Worth a try," Taylor says, shrugging. He looks at his palm again, this time imagining something small, angular, glittering in the sunlight. He's holding the pendant, chain pooled in his hand, almost before he finishes thinking about it. He tilts his head at Mom a little. "So if I can hold a thing, and you can hold a thing…"

Mom blinks. "I have no idea," she says after a moment. "We can try, though."

Taylor grins and holds the necklace up, fumbling a little bit with the clasp. He narrows his eyes at it, imagining it a little bigger, a little easier for him to manage. It changes before his eyes, and he grins triumphantly as he gets it open. "Here," he instructs, nodding his head.

It gets him a smile as Mom walks over, holding her hair out of the way as Taylor loops the necklace around her neck and fastens it. He takes a deep breath and lets his hands fall away, and he and Mom both make a little gasping noise when the necklace stays, shining brightly around her neck.

"Oh, honey," she says, reaching up to touch it. She smiles. "I can never take it off."

"I can make you a new one," he says, smiling and shrugging. "Now, c'mon, tell me. What else can I do?"


	12. April: Jeff

"You were right," Hallsy says as soon as Jeff picks up the phone.

"I know," Jeff says as placidly as he can manage. "You okay, man?"

"I can make stuff appear out of thin air," Hallsy replies. "So, like, that's neat."

"It is," Jeff agrees.

"I can also, like, teleport things? Not myself, but Mom says I'll probably be able to at some point," Hallsy goes on. He doesn't sound too freaked out, but Jeff doesn't know the guy that well. He is rambling a little, and that's almost never a great sign. "I can't fly, and I can't control minds. Oh, and I don't have healing powers."

Jeff snorts a little. "Well, you can't ask for everything."

"Sure I can," Hallsy counters. "You never know what you can have unless you ask."

"That's one way of looking at it," Jeff says, blinking. "So. Now you know."

"Mom said I'm a demigod," Hallsy says, and yeah, okay, now he sounds like he might be losing it a little. "My mom is a _goddess_. Like, a legit goddess, Skins."

"Yeah," Jeff says, as gently as he can. "That's what I knew when I woke up this morning."

"Holy shit," Hallsy says, laughing a little shakily. "Holy shit, man."

"Do you need to call someone else and talk this out?" Jeff asks cautiously. It's been half a day since he'd called Hallsy, but that doesn't mean that he's actually talked to anyone but his mom yet. Jeff can only imagine how long the "sorry I didn't tell you that you were a demigod" conversation took.

"I—yeah?" Hallsy replies. "Shit. I gotta call Jordan."

"Okay," Jeff says. "How about you do that, and I'll call Davo and tell him we need you on Team Ass-Kicking."

"Oh my god, I can _help_ ," Hallsy says. "Holy _shit_."

"You can help," Jeff agrees, smiling. "We're hoping you can help a lot, actually. We have someone you need to meet."

"I can't decide if that's kinda threatening or not," Hallsy says after a moment. "Like, I don't want to meet the demon until I'm really sure I've got the hang of all of this."

Jeff snorts. "Yeah, no. There's, um. Someone… not quite in the same boat as you, but who has… power."

"Power," Hallsy echoes. "Which I have. Shit, man."

It makes Jeff laugh. "Call Ebs," he instructs. "I'll call Davo. Let me know what you're doing in, like, a week, or whenever you think the Caps series is gonna be over."

"I've met most of the Caps," Hallsy says immediately.

"Not like this," Jeff says. He knows it sounds kind of ominous, but there's really no other way to say it, and it's not like he's going to blurt it out over the phone. He does have a _little_ tact, thanks.

"Okay," Hallsy says, drawing it out for far longer than is strictly necessary. "I'll text you my schedule after I talk to Ebby."

"Okay," Jeff agrees easily. They hang up, and Jeff considers his options: he really needs to call Davo, but he woke up knowing two things this morning. He decides to make the other call first; he's kind of been putting it off since he called Hallsy, not wanting to miss him calling back.

"Jeff," Gabe says warmly when he picks up. He sounds better than he had all season; they're not as close as they were in Kitchener for a lot of really obvious reasons, but they've always kept in touch. Gabe sounds less like... well, less like he's dealing with the worst season in NHL history with a demon as the cherry on top. "How's it going?"

"Possibly a lot better now than it was this time yesterday," Jeff says. "We might have another secret weapon."

Gabe laughs. "Nicke not enough for you?"

"Not according to him, no," Jeff says, sighing a little bit. "Look, I have something for you, but it's not much."

"Oh," Gabe says, voice going quiet. "Yeah, okay. What do you have?"

"It's someone in charge of something hockey-related," Jeff says. "Which I realise isn't a ton to go on, but it rules out some pissed-off fan knowing too much."

Gabe breathes out. "Well, fuck."

"Yeah," Jeff agrees. It's not good news, not necessarily; they're raised to trust the people in charge to a large extent, so hearing that someone is betraying that trust isn't a great feeling. "Oh, also, I'm stealing Taylor Hall."

It surprises a laugh out of Gabe. "For what?" he asks, amused. "If you need bait, Jeff, I can work something up."

"I told you we had another secret weapon," Jeff says, grinning.

"He's…" Gabe says, then pauses, clearly considering. "Okay, no. What is he?"

"Demigod," Jeff says. It feels kind of crazy to say it out loud, but it's the truth.

Gabe laughs, honestly surprised for maybe the second time that Jeff's known him. "No shit?"

"No shit," Jeff confirms. "We're hoping that he and Backy can work together to figure out… something."

"Yeah, good," Gabe agrees. "He's been kind of miserable on Team Us, so I hope he can help you guys out more."

"I hope so too," Jeff says fervently. "Speaking of, though, I should call Davo. I need to tell him about the teammate-stealing."

"It's a trade," Gabe corrects. "Taylor Hall for future considerations, and I'm calling those in as 'getting rid of this demon.'"

Jeff laughs. "I'm working on it," he promises. "Talk to you later, eh?"

"Definitely eh," Gabe says, bright as ever. "Bye, Canada."

"Bye, asshole," Jeff says fondly.

He's gearing up to call Davo when Noah pops his head in. "Hey," he says, giving Jeff a smile. "Snack break?"

"Hell yes," Jeff says, not even caring that Noah's laughing at him.

"He's not that intimidating," Noah says, heading for the kitchen. Jeff follows, taking the smoothie Noah had made with a nod of thanks. "We hung out with Ovechkin and Backstrom the other day. It's just _Davo_."

"It's just _Davo_ ," Jeff mimics, rolling his eyes. "What if I told you that it was your job to call Crosby and change his whole plan, huh?"

"It's not like you're telling him he sucks at faceoffs or something," Noah says, which is true. "Believe it or not, Davo listens to people. He's pretty good at changing the play on the fly if something unexpected comes up."

"Not everything has to be a hockey metaphor," Jeff says. "I can understand things that aren't hockey."

"But I don't know any figure skating metaphors," Noah says, face way too innocent. Jeff whacks him in the shoulder, and he grins. "Whatever. I'll call Davo for you if you don't want to talk to him."

"I'll call," Jeff sighs, sipping at his smoothie. "But I'm gonna finish this first."

Noah just grins and takes an obnoxiously slurped sip of his own smoothie.

Jeff's staring at his phone fifteen minutes later, wondering why he's finding this so difficult. He makes a face at his phone, then unlocks it and hits Davo's number, bringing the phone up to his ear.

"Hey, Skinny," Davo answers on the second ring. "How's it going?"

"Good," Jeff says, blowing out a breath. "Maybe better than good. We'll see."

"That sounds promising," Davo says. "Is this related in any way to the reason Ebs locked himself in the spare bedroom instead of going over game tape with me?"

Jeff laughs a little. "Yeah, uh. Sorry about that."

"Details," Davo says. "What's up?"

"Well," Jeff says, fidgeting a little. "Hallsy's not blank. At all."

There's a long, quiet moment; the call doesn't drop, but Jeff does check twice. "Okay," Davo says. "Explain, please."

-0-

The Caps beat the Bruins, to nobody's actual surprise, and then they have a few days off before they have to play the Penguins. Jeff's glad they have at least a little time.

"Fucking Crosby," Ovi grumbles, absolutely no heat in his voice. "Why he so good? Why he collect good teammates?"

"Are you calling Malkin good?" Backy asks, raising an eyebrow. "That's new."

"No," Ovi says emphatically. "Bonino, though, he good."

"Don't," Backy says, giving Ovi a _look_ just as Ovi opens his mouth. He turns to look at the rest of them. "Do you remember the Punjabi call last year?"

"Bonino Bonino Bonino," Hallsy yells, clearly delighted when Ovi joins him, laughing.

Backy just sighs. "And we're the League's last line of defense," he says dryly. "Wonderful."

"We the best," Ovi says, throwing an arm over Hallsy's shoulders. Hallsy doesn't even have the good grace to look a little overwhelmed by it, the bastard.

"Okay," Marns says, clearly amused. He and Stromer are on FaceTime; Stromer had said something about a vacation, and there was way too much softness in his voice for Jeff to ask about it when he'd said they couldn't make it back to Washington this time. "So we gained Hallsy. That's cool, but why?"

"No offense," Stromer adds.

Hallsy grins at them. He tilts his head a little and reaches out, and by the time his hand is in view of the camera, he's holding a rock. He closes his hand around it and opens it again, and the rock is an American penny, shiny like it's new. He does it again and reveals a very small flower.

"Whoa," Stromer says, leaning close to the camera. "Where the fuck did you learn that?"

"From my mom," Hallsy says, the picture of casual. "Who's, y'know, an actual goddess."

"Holy shit," Marns says. Jeff's glad they're each on the call on their own phones; he doesn't want to witness them wrestling for a shared screen. "That's nuts."

"Tell me about it," Hallsy says. He picks the flower up, and it blinks back to the rock he'd originally made. "Ready for the weird part?"

"This isn't the weird part?" Marns demands.

Hallsy laughs and flicks the rock at Jeff's phone. Even though he knows what's coming, Jeff still flinches a little.

"It's gone," Stromer says. "That's totally normal."

"All of this is totally normal," Hallsy interjects, leaning back. "Like, totally. I go from zero magic one day to finding out I'm actually a demigod the next."

Noah laughs. "Head trip."

"Yes," Hallsy says emphatically. "Major head trip."

"Anyway," Backy says, and everyone's attention shifts to him as if he's drawing them in. He smiles slightly; Jeff knows that he'd said he couldn't mind control them or anything, but it's still a little creepy how they all turn and focus. "Hallsy, do you know how much power you have?"

Hallsy shakes his head. "I've pretty much only tried small stuff," he admits. "It seems pretty limitless when all you're doing is making rocks and flowers."

Backy nods. "You'll want to practice," he says. "Try making something bigger, and then making sure it stays. Hold a book for an hour, then move to something larger and hold it longer."

"Makes sense," Hallsy says. "Stretching, kind of."

"Weight training," Stromer interjects. "You can build it up over time, get better at it. Then you can do more with it."

"Good," Backy says approvingly. "It's great that you can make all of these pebbles, Hallsy, but they're not going to do us much good in a fight."

Hallsy frowns a little. "I mean, yeah," he says. "But do you have any idea of how I can help? It's not like I can make everyone a demon-hunting gun. Once I stop touching stuff, it disappears."

"You have limits?" Ovi asks, narrowing his eyes a little. It's his thinking look, or so Jeff assumes. "You have to make real-life things?"

"No clue," Hallsy says, shrugging. "I can try."

"Tiny dragon," Marns and Stromer say at the same time, in the same excited, almost breathless tone of voice.

Noah laughs, and it's probably just as much at them as it is with them. "Tiny dragon, though," he agrees. "Let's see it."

Hallsy shakes his head, but he's smiling. He holds his hand up and kind of just stares at it for a moment; Jeff has no idea what exactly goes into creating a tiny dragon out of thin air, but he's guessing that Hallsy's working on it.

"Whoa," Hallsy says, sounding a little alarmed. Jeff doesn't blame him; if he was suddenly holding a palm-sized creature with fangs and fire breath, he'd probably be a little shocked, too.

"Oh my god," Stromer gasps.

"It's _adorable_ ," Marns adds, grinning like crazy as he leans in. "Skinny, get closer. This is amazing."

"He's here with me, and he thinks _that's_ the most amazing thing on the planet," Stromer says longsufferingly, but he's got his phone really close to his face, too. "Does it breathe fire?"

Backy laughs. "An excellent question," he says, reaching out. The smoke that comes out of his fingers is like what Jeff remembers Gabe's being: light, airy, sooty black in color. Backy moves his hand and the smoke moves, too, reaching out to curl around the dragon. It turns quickly in Hallsy's palm, licking at where the smoke had been, then turns the other way to try to catch it. It takes a minute or two of teasing, but it finally growls and blows out a tiny stream of fire.

"Oh my god, I love him," Hallsy says, bringing the dragon up to his face. "Can I name him? I wanna name him."

"As soon as you put him down, he'll disappear," Noah says, kind of gently. "I don't think it's a good idea to get attached."

"But I can bring him back whenever I want," Hallsy points out. "I'm gonna call him Dorito."

"Perfect," Marns says instantly. "That's awesome."

"We're not naming a dog Dorito," Stromer says, like it's an addition to a list they've had going for a while. "Or a cat. Hallsy claimed the name, so we can't use it."

Hallsy opens his mouth like he's going to grant permission, and Jeff has no idea if he does it on purpose or not, but Ovi cuts him off. "You make a living thing," he says. "Nicky, is that bigger magic, even though it's little dragon?"

"Absolutely," Backy says. He flexes his fingers and the smoke dissipates. Dorito snaps at it, turning circles in Hallsy's hand when he can't find it. He lets out a little huff, and a curl of smoke rises from his mouth.

"Maybe we put baby dragon away," Ovi suggests, reaching out to rub the tip of his finger against Dorito's head. "We need to focus."

"Sasha's right," Backy says, sounding amused. "You can play with your dragon later, Hallsy."

"But _Dad_ ," Hallsy whines. He pats Dorito's head and sighs. It's just as odd to see the dragon disappear as it had been to see it pop out of nothing in the first place. "Fine, okay. We figured out that I can make things out of fairy tales."

"So you're not limited by design," Backy says. "That's good. That gives us… options."

"I'm all about the options," Hallsy says, leaning in. He's suddenly serious, as if the whole baby dragon thing had happened with his easily-amused twin. "I'm good with whatever option lets us get rid of Puck once and for all."

"Be careful with its name," Backy warns. "Names are powerful things." Something seems to occur to him, and he focuses on the phone. "Did you give it your names when you confronted it last time?"

"No," Stromer says immediately. "There was no reason to, but also, that just seemed like a bad idea."

"Good," Backy says, relaxing slightly. "Don't give it your name, or a nickname, or anything it can use to call on you. It can… call your mind, in a way."

"Yeah, no thanks," Noah says, making a face. "It works like normal, right? Even if it hears Jeff say my name, it still can't use it unless it's directly given up?"

"Right," Backy says, nodding. "Be careful with your own name, but be careful with everyone else's, too."

"Great," Jeff mutters. "Like this wasn't creepy enough already."

Ovi laughs. "Just wait," he promises. "Probably gonna get a lot creepier."

"Awesome," Marns says. "So, we've got the leader of all the fae in the League and a demigod. What are our chances?"

"Well," Backy says after a pause. "I'm not actually sure."


	13. April: Ryan

"I think," Connor says slowly. They're back in Edmonton, all of them trying to shake the taste of losing a playoff series out of their mouths. Ryan is already looking forward to next year, to being even better and more ready.

"You think what?" Ryan prompts when Connor doesn't go on. He's always been good at this, at knowing when to push and when to wait. He's getting even better when it comes to Connor.

"I think it's time to call in Crosby," Connor says. He's fidgeting with his pants a little, like he's not actually sure of himself. "It's not that I can't handle it, but—"

"Hey, no, nobody's going to say that," Ryan cuts in, reaching out to tap at the back of Connor's hand. He lets it go still, then turns it over so Ryan can lace their fingers together. "And there's _definitely_ nobody who's gonna turn down the kind of help Crosby can bring in."

"He's busy," Connor says, sighing. "Like, probably the kind of busy that leads to winning another Cup."

"I have the feeling he's learned to multitask," Ryan says, trying not to smile too much. "I mean, he _is_ Sidney Crosby."

"Yeah," Connor says, wriggling around on the sofa until he's pressed up against Ryan's side. "Should I call him, d'you think?"

"I'll do it," Ryan says, squeezing Connor's hand a little. "I mean, I've got his number, and he specifically told me to use it if I needed."

"I have his number, too," Connor protests.

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "I'm not gonna say you can't. I was just offering so you didn't have every single thing ever on your plate."

Connor sighs and drops his head against Ryan's shoulder. "Thanks," he mumbles. 

"You're welcome," Ryan replies, leaning his head against Connor's. It's been a long season, from the World Cup to the playoffs, and Ryan feels like he's had sort of a long career, even if he's only actually been in the League a handful of years. Demons will do that to you, he figures. It's nice to rest now, though, to just sit with Connor for a moment and breathe.

"I think," Connor says again.

"There you go with the thinking," Ryan says, but this time he doesn't try to hide his smile.

"I don't really like this apartment all that much," Connor says, and Ryan can feel him tense up a little, preparing himself to pull back.

Ryan throws his arm over Connor's shoulders. "Oh, good," he says, rubbing his thumb gently against Connor's arm. "That means I don't have to convince you to go apartment hunting with me, right?"

Connor turns his head so he's pressing a smile against Ryan's shoulder. "I mean, you can give me your best infomercial presentation anyway," he says.

"We can find a place with all the greatest things," Ryan intones, nudging at Connor's head with his chin. "Like a cool living room for this great sofa we're sitting on! A new entertainment centre for the PS4 with a bunch of games neither of us knows how to play! A kitchen that I actually know how to use without burning anything down!" He pauses, hearing Connor trying not to laugh and mostly failing. "And hey, I hear the company in the new place would be pretty good, too."

Connor laughs out loud, and Ryan pulls back just to see the way the skin around his eyes crinkles up. "Yeah? You want to find a place that's just for us, then?"

"I do," Ryan says. "I'm done with the bachelor life, I think."

"You're ridiculous," Connor replies, smiling wide and happy. "I guess I'll take you up on that. I never liked the idea of a bachelor pad, anyway."

"We can look later in the summer," Ryan promises, smiling back just as wide. "A couple of first-overall picks, we've probably got enough potential here to make it work."

Connor rolls his eyes. "Yeah, we'll figure it out," he says. "Anyway, now that we've got that planned, back to the Crosby thing."

"I have no idea why the media thinks you're turning into a hockey robot," Ryan deadpans. "You're so romantic."

"I'll show you romance," Connor says like it's a threat, then pauses. "But later. After you call Crosby. That has to come first."

"Oh captain, my captain," Ryan says, putting a hand over his heart.

"You know the captain in that poem is, like, dead, right?" Connor asks, raising both eyebrows. "So thanks, but also: no thanks."

"I guess we're both killing the romance," Ryan says, reaching to the coffee table for his phone. He unlocks it, then pulls up Crosby's number. "Maybe I should text first," he muses. "I don't want to, like, wake Sidney Crosby up from a nap."

Connor shudders. "Yeah, text," he agrees. "That's a giant no. No waking Crosby up from naps."

"Good plan," Ryan says, tapping out a quick text. _Hey, this is Nuge. You told me a long time ago to call if there was something you could do to help._

He's considering whether or not to send something else, maybe about how he knows Crosby's busy but he'd appreciate a text back, when his phone rings.

"Uh," Ryan says, looking at the screen. "I guess he's not napping."

"Speakerphone," Connor demands, and Ryan rolls his eyes at him.

"Hey," Ryan answers, holding the phone up to his ear just to be a bit of a jackass. Connor pouts, and Ryan grins at him. "Not busy right this second?"

"Nuge," Crosby replies, voice just as serious as Ryan remembers. "I thought—when we played you guys this season, I didn't feel anything anymore."

"We got rid of it," Ryan says. "But, um. Long story short, someone set it up again, but in Denver this time."

"Why are people like this?" Crosby wonders aloud, and Ryan laughs.

"Hang on, I'm with Davo," he says. "Mind if I put you on speaker?"

"Nah, go ahead," Crosby replies.

Ryan puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the coffee table. "Hey," he says. "We're both here."

"Hey, Davo," Crosby says, easy like they're old friends.

Connor nods at the phone. "Hey," he replies. "Thanks for offering to help. I know it's the playoffs, but…"

Crosby chuckles a little. "Curses wait for nobody," he quips, and it makes Ryan grimace a little.

"Yeah, well, about that," Connor says, and he launches into the abridged version of the story—all the main points, not too many of the details. Crosby doesn't interrupt, and Connor leans back into Ryan a little when he's done.

"Shit," Crosby finally says. "And someone let it out? In Denver, you said?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "We've got a team of people working on things, but we wanted to bring you in. Obviously we're not expecting you to drop everything and fly to Denver, but we figured you might have some input, or might know someone who does."

"Have you called Ovechkin?" Crosby asks almost instantly. "He knows—"

"Yeah," Ryan cuts in. "Backstrom can't do it on his own. He says the demon's too strong."

"Well, that's terrifying," Crosby says, still sounding calm. "I've seen him—never mind. He doesn't have any ideas?"

"Taylor Hall's a demigod," Connor blurts out. "It's… uh. He just found out."

"He _just found out_?" Crosby asks, and there's definitely a note of incredulity in his voice. "How do you not know that?"

"Not to be mean, but you've met Hallsy, right?" Ryan says, biting his cheek a little. "I love the guy like a brother, but if it's not hockey or his partner, he's not… good at it."

"His mom hid it really well, too," Connor adds. "Apparently his dad's like a magic dampener, so it… helped?"

"Wow," Crosby says. "That's… wow."

"But Backstrom isn't really confident in their combined ability, either," Ryan says, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "We're reaching out to as many people as we can, as quietly as we can. We really need all the input we can get."

Crosby sighs. "That makes it sound pretty bad," he says. "Can't you banish it the same way you did last time?"

"We're trying to kill it," Connor says flatly.

It seems to shock Crosby, or at least stun him into silence for a handful of seconds. "Well," he finally says. "That explains the call."

"Like I said, we're not expecting you to drop everything," Ryan reiterates. "You've got the playoffs going on. We just figured we'd see if you knew anything, or knew anybody who might."

"I might," Crosby says. "Let me think about it for a few days. I'll get back to you, okay?"

"Okay," Connor answers, and Ryan doubts that Crosby can hear the note of relief in his voice, but it's loud and clear to Ryan. "Thank you."

"Don't do anything stupid," Crosby warns. "We'll figure out a plan."

Connor laughs. "We'll wait to hear from you," he says. "Just try not to wait until you make it all the way, eh?"

"Don't jinx it," Crosby snaps, and Connor and Ryan look at each other, grinning. "I'll call you after I talk to a few people."

"Thanks," Ryan says again.

"Demons," Crosby mutters, and then he hangs up.

"I mean," Connor says, looking at Ryan's phone, "I think that went pretty well, honestly."

Ryan can't disagree.

-0-

The most frustrating thing about trying to find out who set Puck loose in the first place is that none of them even know where to _start_.

Jordan lets out a frustrated sigh. "This is useless," he gripes. "It happened before any of us was even born."

Ryan blinks and shakes his head a little. "Wow, wait," he says. "Coach Buchberger."

Connor just stares for a minute. "How have none of us thought of him before?" he finally asks.

"Don't know," Ryan replies, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts. "I'm gonna fix it, though."

"Good," Connor mutters as Ryan hits call.

"We're good at hockey, it's okay," Jordan fake-whispers as the call connects, and Ryan rolls his eyes as hard as he can.

"Nuge," Coach says, sounding surprised. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Hey, Coach," Ryan says. "I'm here with Ebs and Davo, and we have a question for you. Mind if I put you on speaker?"

"Go for it, kid," Coach says. "And I'm not your coach anymore."

"Sure, Coach," Ryan says, grinning as he puts the phone on speaker. "Whatever you say, Coach."

"Hey Coach," Jordan adds as the speakerphone connects, and Ryan snorts a little.

"Kids," Coach grumbles. "What's going on?"

"The demon," Connor says, a little grimly. "We wanted to talk to someone who was around, y'know, at the start of it."

Coach blows out a long, heavy breath. "Damn," he mutters. "Nuge, have you called Ms. Brenniss? If that thing's out and about again, she'll want to know."

"No, but that's a good idea," Ryan says, making a mental note to call Aly. "We're trying to figure out how it got to Edmonton in the first place."

"Is someone taking care of getting rid of it?" Coach asks. "Because no offense, boys, but I don't think the how is as important as getting rid of it."

"We have people working on that," Connor confirms. "It's not here. It's in Denver."

"That explains a whole lot," Coach mutters, then sighs. "Look, boys, there's not a lot I can tell you. By the time any of us noticed something was wrong, it had been there for years. We all thought it was a curse, but you know that."

"And nobody ever figured out why?" Jordan asks. "Or had a guess?"

"Not that I can recall," Coach says. "Look, if you want to talk to someone who might have some real thought on the matter, well."

"Yes, please," Ryan says. "Anyone who might know something."

"I shouldn't just be giving out his number," Coach mutters, as if he's talking to himself. "But I suppose…"

"You don't have to," Connor says. Ryan turns; Connor's been the most stressed about their lack of progress, and Ryan can't really believe that Connor's giving up a lead like this. He's not looking at Ryan, or even at Ryan's phone, though. He's staring down at his own phone, at a contact he's got pulled up. "I already have it."

"Can someone fill in the peanut gallery?" Jordan asks lightly.

Coach hums a little. "D'you have Gretz or Mess in there, kid?"

"Oh," Jordan says, eyes going wide.

"Both," Connor says, like it's no big deal. Ryan's a little amazed to find that he's not jealous of that at all. "Got a suggestion of who to call first?"

Coach sighs again, and Ryan feels little bad. He's already got enough gray hair that chirping him about it wouldn't be funny, but Ryan can't help but feel like they're stressing him out. "You don't really have a choice, kid, and I'm sorry about that," he says. "Gretz might not know, or might not… his memory's not too great these days."

There's a lot there Coach isn't saying, but Ryan hears it anyway: concussions, going too long on too little, the aftereffects of whatever Puck might have done to him, whatever anyone or anything _else_ might have done to him over the years.

"But Mess isn't gonna talk to you about anything Gretz-related unless Gretz tells him it's okay," Coach continues. "So you have to call Gretz first."

"Okay," Connor says. His voice is even, calm; there's something stricken on his face, though. "Thanks, Coach."

"You boys call if you need help," Coach says. "With getting rid of it, I mean. I'm not so great at the figuring things out part, but I still can and will kick some heads in."

"Will do," Ryan says. "Thanks."

Coach hangs up before Ryan can get to the phone, which is fine, because he's pretty focused on Connor right now. "Hey," he says as gently as he can manage. "What's with the face?"

Connor's laugh is a little hollow. "Have you ever talked to Gretzky? Like, tried to hold an actual conversation with him, not just a meet-and-greet?"

"No," Ryan says cautiously. "Ebs?"

"No," Jordan confirms. "What, is he an asshole?"

"No," Connor says slowly. "It's like… there's nothing there except hockey."

Ryan frowns. "How so?"

Connor looks up from his phone, fixing his gaze on Ryan. "There's nothing there," he repeats. "I tried asking about his family once, because that's, like, a basic conversational thing." He pauses and blinks a few times. "He couldn't remember his kids' names. Not a single one of them. He has _five_."

"What," Jordan says, eyes wide.

"He remembered his wife when we saw her, but as soon as she walked away, it was like it was back to hockey and nothing," Connor goes on. "I thought it was just the, you know, all the hits to the head…"

"It's gotta be Puck," Ryan says. He's glad he's already sitting; he's too stunned to try anything more ambitious right now. "Or some other magical thing. It has to."

Connor shrugs a little. "He's been checked over by pretty much every magical specialist there is," he says. "Nobody's found anything, according to Messier."

"Shit," Jordan says shakily. "If they were looking for a curse, and it was Puck…"

"They wouldn't have found anything," Ryan finishes. "How is this not news?"

"Because he can remember hockey, and that's all anyone ever asks him about," Connor says, shrugging a little. "And Messier is pretty much his media bodyguard."

"So we need to talk to Gretzky and hope he's got enough juice in him to tell Messier it's okay to talk to us," Jordan says. "Aside from all the _holy shit_ inherent in that, this isn't gonna be easy, is it?"

"No," Connor says, shaking his head and looking back at his phone. "It sure isn't."


	14. May: Puck

The problem, Puck surmises, is that there is no way to directly contact Gary Bettman. From what Puck can see—which, granted, is not much at all—Gary Bettman is living his life unaware that Puck has been discovered, unaware that everything could be crumbling.

There is no concern to be found for Gary Bettman's plight. He had made it clear that he could take care of himself; Puck had offered no protections, but Gary Bettman had not begged for any, either. It therefore is not Puck's concern what fate befalls Gary Bettman, but as Puck's fate is tied to Gary Bettman's knowledge… well.

It makes things difficult, really.

It is hard to judge what the humans are planning. Puck had been prepared, in the days and weeks after being discovered, but no attack had come; the humans who played their game in Denver continued to do so, and Puck continued to take, take, take from them. There was no late-night ritual, no incantation from the rafters, just a bleak silence and complete lack of action other than an increase in wards.

It is.. inconsistent, Puck decides. It does not mesh with what humans do, with what humans have done. Humans are not always rash or impulsive, but many of the ones Puck has encountered have been driven by something, be it internal or external. Humans are not known for their patience, but more than a month after discovering the binding mark at centre ice, they have yet to make a move.

It makes Puck uneasy, which is not a familiar feeling. A showdown would make sense; an attack would follow what Puck knows of humans. The stagnancy, the sitting and waiting even after the lights go out on the season in Denver… Puck has heard humans say that their _skin crawls_ around things that make them uneasy. Possibly this is what they mean.

There is no recourse but to wait, though. There is no way to reach Gary Bettman, and though Puck could reach out to some of the other souls that it has collected over the years, there is no way of knowing how viable the connection will be, or how quietly the issues could be resolved. No, Puck will prepare, instead, store up as much energy as possible and wait.

And wait.


	15. May: Mitch

Mitch hasn't actually been worried about his relationship with Dylan since December; they got through the whole "surprise, I don't want to have sex with you!" thing with pretty much no fallout, to Mitch's absolute astonishment, and they're still solid. Still, it had been nice to get away with Dylan for a little while, to get out to Cavendish and check off the silly little rom-com moment he'd had in the back of his head.

It's good to be back, too, though. Mitch isn't under any illusions about what they're planning to do; he's a good breaker and Dylan's just as good at casting, and they've got a whole bunch of really powerful people on their side. Still, they're going up against _Puck_. The more they find out about Puck, the more creeped out Mitch gets. He doesn't think that he wouldn't have gone up against Puck last year in Edmonton if he'd known, but he definitely would have gone in better prepared.

"Jeff's got a family thing this week and I've got an Eichs thing," Hanny says over the phone the day after Mitch and Dylan get back to Markham. Mitch is working in the garden, pulling apart the spells that his mom has been complaining about for a few months now. Mitch can see what it's meant to do as he peels back layer after layer, but there's no way he can put it back together in the right order; instead of the stop-and-start fertilizer problem that's going on now, he'd probably kill all the plants with way too much of it or something. He motions for Dylan to come over and points, watching as Dylan squints.

"Yeah," Mitch says into the phone. "Dyls and I are fixing my mom's rose garden. Why are we talking about our plans?"

Dylan pokes at part of the spellwork, frowning as it refuses to budge. He motions at it and Mitch obediently takes it apart, holding it until Dylan can dig his fingers in and mess around with it.

"Because," Hanny says, "somebody's gotta meet up with Ovechkin and Backstrom in Pittsburgh, and we're sure as hell not sending Hallsy by himself."

"Got it," Dylan says, yanking a strand of magic up. He holds it out for Mitch, who follows it down to its root and picks it out. The rest of the magic settles back into place, and he looks at Dylan triumphantly.

"Sweet, okay," Mitch says, grinning as Dylan gives him a thumbs-up and pats at the spellwork on the watering can. "So, what, you need us to go to Pittsburgh?"

"Yeah," Hanny says. "I know you guys just got back, but like, time is of the essence and all that crap."

"You're so eloquent," Mitch says dryly. He stands up and grabs the watering can, walking over to the side of the house and sticking the hose in so it'll fill up. "Did Ovi say when they want to get together?"

"No," Hanny replies. "Just that he had someone else that might be able to help, and he wanted people to talk things out."

"Great," Mitch mutters. He turns the hose off and walks the watering can back over, presenting it to Dylan with a flourish. Dylan rolls his eyes, but he picks it up and starts watering the roses slowly and evenly. The magic looks good, Mitch notes, nodding a little. "Okay, we'll check flights and get down there as soon as we can."

"You have his number, right?" Hanny asks. "Or, well, Stromer definitely does."

"Yeah, I've got it," Mitch replies. "We'll keep you in the loop. Good luck with whatever Eichs has going on."

Hanny laughs. "Thanks."

They hang up, and Mitch sticks his phone in his pocket before heading to where Dylan is putting the watering can down. "Go team us," he says, slinging his arm around Dylan's waist. "Flower problem: fixed."

"Apparently we've got some kind of Ovi problem to take its place," Dylan says, putting his arm over Mitch's shoulders. "Or did he fix a problem?"

"He's got another person," Mitch says, shrugging a little. "Hanny and Skinner can't go, and…"

"Yeah, Hallsy's better off practising his new magic stuff," Dylan agrees. "We're racking up the frequent flyer miles, eh? I'll get us packed while you book."

Mitch sways into Dylan a little, smiling when Dylan just lets them rock back and forth in the garden for a few minutes. Dylan helps him focus when he needs to, keeps him grounded all the time, and Mitch just really likes _being_ with him. He knows that all the magic stuff they've done, the sharing, it's all pretty much permanent, given that nobody actually knows how they did it, so nobody could undo it. He's pretty happy with it, all things considered.

"Pittsburgh," Dylan says after a while, brushing a kiss against Mitch's head. "Laundry's done from the trip. D'you think we'll need anything more formal?"

"No idea," Mitch says. "Maybe something a little nice for each of us? Slacks and a button-up?"

Dylan sighs. "We're gonna have to drive back to my parents' place," he says. "I don't have anything here."

"We should just get a place in, like, Brampton," Mitch says, words tumbling out of him. "Halfway between, yeah? And then we have a place that's for us."

It makes Dylan blink at him for a moment. Mitch isn't nervous, not really; he can feel that Dylan's mulling it over, but he's not upset, isn't trying to figure out a way to let Mitch down gently or anything like that. "Yeah," he says finally, smile breaking over his face. "After everything's over, we should look."

"Awesome," Mitch says, helpless to do anything but smile back. "Let's get moving, then. The sooner we get to Pittsburgh…"

Dylan laughs. "I don't think that's how it works," he says," but okay."

Mitch starts heading for the house, pulling his phone out so he can start looking at flights. "Hey, d'you think the person Ovi found is Crosby?"

"I mean, maybe," Dylan says. "It's probably another Cap, though. Maybe someone on the training staff or something, someone they didn't want to bring to the first big get-together."

"Yeah," Mitch says. "That makes sense."

"Let's get to Pittsburgh and find out," Dylan says, giving Mitch a grin, and Mitch nods as he books their flight.

-0-

Mitch is glad they'd brought nice clothes, even if they'd had to speed a little to make it to Dylan's parents' and then to the airport; Ovi had left tickets to the game for them, and they were in a nice box with a lot of people in full-out suits. They're in the bowels of PPG Paints now, though, waiting as Ovi directed.

"Strome!" Ovi's voice booms down the hallway. Mitch looks up just in time to see him round the corner, Backstrom following at a more sedate pace, and he's very, very definitely deep in conversation with Sidney Crosby.

"It's Crosby," Dylan hisses unnecessarily, and Mitch isn't sure which one of them is feeding excitement and anxiety into their bond, but it's all rolling around inside both of them and probably isn't helping anything.

Mitch takes a deep breath and thinks about their time on the beach, very pointedly pushing memories of Dylan sprawled out asleep on a towel in Dylan's direction. The feelings drop off pretty quickly, and Dylan steps away from the wall, giving a friendly smile. "Hey."

"I'm introduce you to Crosby, come on," Ovi says, throwing an arm over Dylan's shoulders. He shoots Mitch a wink. "I know you big fan, right? Everybody a big fan of Crosby."

"Ovi," Crosby sighs. He looks tired, but Mitch figures that's what going deep into the playoffs after winning the Cup last year looks like. He'd like to find out for himself someday.

"Hi," Dylan says, shrugging Ovi's arm off and holding out his hand. "I'm Dylan Strome."

"I know," Crosby says, giving him a smile as they shake hands. It's not much of one, but it looks genuine to Mitch. "You had a good season, and you guys'll be contenders sooner than anyone is expecting."

Dylan doesn't outwardly display any of the surprise he's feeling, and Mitch gives him a lot of credit for that. "Thanks," he replies.

Crosby turns and gives Mitch the same smile. "And Mitch Marner," he says. "You're scary. Can I say he's scary?" He turns to Backstrom. "I never want to see him on a breakaway again in my entire life."

Now it's Mitch's turn to not give away quite how thrilled he is with the compliments. "No promises," he says, hoping he sounds at least mostly normal. "So you're our new secret weapon?"

"Only sort of," Ovi says. "Nicky still the real secret weapon. And Taylor Hall. Sid just… good at regular magic."

Crosby huffs. "You're such a great friend," he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. "It's so sad, how we're bitter rivals and we can't spend more time together."

"I say you're good!" Ovi protests. There's a smile lurking behind his words, and Mitch suddenly wonders how much of their purported rivalry is real, and how much of it is the media being unable to let things go. He's sort of curious as to why he hasn't thought about it before. It's not like Davo and Eichs are constantly at each other's throats in real life, and it's the same sort of situation.

"Ovi's a terrible person and you shouldn't listen to him," Crosby says solemnly, and yeah, there's definitely a hint of humor in it. Mitch is glad, honestly; hating someone the way they're supposed to has to be exhausting.

"But I so nice," Ovi croons, holding his hands out to Crosby. "We best friends, right, Sid?"

"I'm really sorry about him," Backstrom says. "By the time I started with the Capitals, it was too late to housebreak him."

"It happens," Mitch says solemnly. Backstrom's eyes go light at the joke, and Mitch doesn't mean that metaphorically: his eyes actually start to glow very faintly, as if he's so amused he can't keep the glamour up all the way. Mitch is fully aware that it's more that he's letting them see it, but it's still… yeah. Mitch notices, but all he does is grin in reply.

"Anyway," Crosby says. "Davo and Nuge were a little vague, and then Backy didn't have any real answers for me. Why aren't we going to the League with this?"

"Because we have no idea who caused it," Dylan says, shrugging a little. "We know it's not a player or a fan. It's someone in charge of something, and that could mean Patrick Roy left a really terrible parting gift, or…"

"It could be bigger than that," Crosby finishes, letting out a breath. "I want to say that nobody at the League level would do this, but without knowing more details…"

"We just don't think it's a good idea to risk it," Mitch says. "Not until we know. Not until we have a plan."

"Speaking of the plan," Crosby says. "I have an idea, but it's a little, uh."

"Crazy," Ovi fills in. "Great idea! But also completely crazy."

"Well, this sounds fun," Dylan drawls. Mitch can feel his excitement; he almost wonders why everyone else can't feel it, too, with how Dylan's practically vibrating in his shoes. "Do we want to talk about it in the hallway?"

"Definitely not," Crosby says, looking around. "We can go to the players' lounge."

"Pens players lounge?" Ovi gasps, clutching dramatically at his chest. "You let us lowly Capitals into your precious penguin house?"

"Backy, sure," Crosby replies without missing a beat. "You have to wait in the hall."

"You hurting my feelings right now," Ovi says in the cheeriest voice Mitch has ever heard, and that's honestly a competition with him. They start walking down the hall, and Ovi throws his arm over Crosby's shoulders. "Worst friend."

"How do you deal with him?" Crosby asks Backstrom, making no move to dislodge Ovi's arm.

"Practice," Backstrom says very evenly. "And he makes very good waffles."

Ovi laughs. "You giving away my secrets," he chides as Crosby directs them into the players' lounge. It's pretty much what Mitch was expecting; the Leafs' one is similar, albeit vastly different in terms of the color scheme.

To nobody's surprise, Ovi gasps dramatically, eyes open wide as he looks around. "So beautiful," he croons. "So… Penguiny."

"He'll stop if you ignore him," Backstrom says to nobody in particular. "Or if we get down to business."

"I choose business," Dylan says. "What's your idea?"

Crosby drops onto one of the sofas. He looks like he's collecting his thoughts; Mitch drifts towards Dylan, half habit and half want, and Dylan reaches for him without looking once he's close enough. Backstrom raises an eyebrow, but Mitch just leans into Dylan, waiting on Crosby.

"I think we need to call in the big guns," he finally says.

Mitch raises an eyebrow and looks around. "That's kind of why we're here," he replies. "There are bigger guns than you guys? Who else are we gonna call, Ghostbusters?"

Crosby doesn't reply, and after a moment, Ovi heaves a sigh. When Mitch looks at him, though, he doesn't look like he's about to crack another joke. Instead, he looks serious, concerned. Tired.

"Sid think we should summon the hockey gods," he says.


	16. May: Jordan

Jordan's not really sure what Connor's conversation with Gretzky is like; he goes a little tight-lipped when asked about it, and Ryan shakes his head, a pinched look around his eyes. Jordan's a little shaken to recognise it: it's the same look that Ryan had given Taylor a hundred times, a thousand, when Jordan hadn't remembered. _Don't ask. Don't push. Don't go there._

"What do we do from here?" he asks instead of pressing the issue. "Did he remember anything useful?"

"No," Connor says. "But he said he'd call Messier, so hopefully he remembers to do that."

"Hopefully," Jordan echoes. "Do we just wait for now?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "We wait."

Jordan sighs; it's definitely not his call, but he hates just sitting around. He wonders a little idly how long it will take. They don't have enough of a plan to do anything yet, but it's not like they have infinite amounts of time, either.

Luckily for his sanity, they don't have to wait too long. Connor gets a text the day after he calls Gretzky, and they set up a meeting for the day after that.

"Boys," Messier says when they walk into the restaurant. He gestures at the table, and as he takes his seat, Jordan feels the spellwork shiver around him. It's a really heavy-duty warding spell, and it's not like that's what _puts_ the ball of dread in the pit of Jordan's stomach, but it doesn't exactly help it go away.

"Mr. Messier," Ryan says, nodding politely. "Do you mind if we wait a minute? We had a last-minute addition to the meeting, and—"

"I'm here," Aly says, not actually rushing up to the table but looking like she wants to. She gives Messier a smile as she pulls up her chair. "Hi, Mark. I hope you don't mind me crashing; the boys said they were meeting with you, and I helped out with things last time."

"I don't mind," Messier says, giving her a warner smile than Jordan thinks he's ever seen Messier give anyone. "You keeping these boys in line?"

"Gods know I'm trying," Aly says, laughing a little. It makes Jordan relax a little, much to his own surprise. Aly's on their side, and Messier is on Aly's side. This might be useful after all.

They order; they're four hockey players and a hockey trainer, so there's more than enough food to go around. Jordan takes his cue from Ryan, who seems to be taking it from Connor; he doesn't bring anything up while they're waiting for their food, and he seems perfectly content to eat before they get into the reason they're all here. It's almost like Connor and Messier are sizing each other up in some really weird way. They've known each other for two years, but then again, this is new ground.

"So," Messier finally says when the waiter has cleared their plates. "I got a call from Gretz."

"I asked him if he'd call you," Connor returns evenly. "I wasn't sure he would."

"I'm surprised he did," Messier says, focusing on something over Connor's shoulder. "He doesn't anymore, not much."

"I'm sorry," Ryan says. "Coach—uh, Kelly Buchburger—he said you might know something, but that you wouldn't say anything unless you got the all-clear."

Messier nods. "I talked to Buchs," he says. "You boys want to know about the demon."

"We do," Connor confirms. "Can you tell us?"

"I can," Messier says. He picks up his water glass and swirls it around a little bit. Jordan can't quite tell if he's doing it to collect his thoughts or to buy a little time. He's not wary, not really, because Coach wouldn't have sent them here if Messier was responsible, but he's not really relaxed, either.

After a moment, Messier sighs and looks up. "What do you know about Gretz' trade?"

They all look at each other, but Jordan's the one who pipes up. "The Oilers sent him and two other guys to the Kings for a couple of guys, a bunch of cash, and some draft picks," he says. "Pretty much nobody in Edmonton was okay with it, let alone happy."

Messier nods. "The team was a mess," he says. "I mean, we pulled our shit together, but it fucked everybody up pretty badly."

"So it was one of the guys on the team?" Aly asks, sounding a little shaken.

"Not exactly," Messier says. "It was—" He breaks off and glances around, then leans in. "When Gretz was traded, when we all first heard that it was gonna happen, the guys… we knew we had to make sure he was okay, right? We had to make sure one of us went with him."

"Marty McSorley," Connor says, voice even in the way that Jordan associates with an impending breakaway, the end-to-end kind of magic that only Connor can work. "And Mike Krushelnyski, but McSorley's the one you made sure went."

"Yeah," Messier replies. "Marty was… well, you know how his career ended."

In a fight, Jordan remembers. In a slash to the head of a guy who never really recovered. In a trial and a conviction and a suspension and jail time.

"He was an enforcer," Ryan says, ever the diplomat. "And he got carried away."

"He was, and he did," Messier agrees. "He was never sorry enough after and never careful enough before, and it put a lot of people in a world of hurt."

"It was McSorley," Aly says, and this time it's not a question. "He called Puck up the first time." She pauses and shakes her head like she's trying to make it make sense. "But why?"

"Because he overreacted, and he's bad at magic," Messier says. "And by the time he realised he'd set it on the team instead of the management like he'd meant to, he'd already sworn me to secrecy about it." He holds out his right hand and rubs at his palm with his fingers; when the spell catches something there, Jordan gasps. There's a circle on Messier's palm with two lines slashed through it, close together, looking like they were drawn there in soot.

"He swore me to secrecy, and then he told me," Messier says, staring at his hand. "I couldn't tell anyone, couldn't do anything about it because of the spell. I'm the one who started the curse rumor. I figured if people were looking for a curse, they'd find the demon before too long."

There's dead silence at the table as his words settle. Jordan feels like he's reeling; it had been a mistake, but only sort of, and an Oiler, but only sort of. He feels a little sick, to be honest.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Connor asks. "After, I mean. When we fixed things."

Messier sighs. "I should have," he says. "I just… he'd already cost himself hockey with the stupid shit he'd done, and it was over and done with."

"He hurt a lot of people," Jordan says shakily. "All of us here."

"I know," Messier says, and he doesn't look happy about anything he's saying. "I should have, and you're free to now, if that's what you want to do." He smiles a little crookedly. "Misplaced team loyalty, I guess."

"Wait," Aly says, leaning in, eyes narrowed. "Marty McSorley's a third-rate caster at absolute best. There's no way he did this on his own."

"He did," Messier sighs. "Or, well, it was all his idea, and all his magic, but not his power."

"He gave it something," Ryan says slowly. "To get it to come, and then to get it to stay."

Jordan swallows hard. "What did he give it?"

Messier looks at him, and Jordan doesn't know him well, but he's never seen the guy look like this: haggard, weary, old. He doesn't smile at all when he replies. "You already know the answer to that, kid."

-0-

"What I don't understand," Aly says, staring at the neck of her beer bottle, "is why Gretzky's still… not all there."

Jordan shakes his head and sips at his own beer. They're back at Ryan's place, sort of dissecting the bomb that Messier had dropped, sort of reeling from it. "I don't know," he says. "When we cast Puck out, I got… I got Taylor back." More than Gretzky had gotten anything, anyway.

"Maybe it's because Gretzky wasn't the one to give it?" Ryan suggests, frowning. "You got your memories back because you gave them up in the first place. Maybe it's because it was McSorley."

"Or maybe," Connor says slowly, rolling his bottle in his hands. "Maybe it's still just holding onto whatever McSorley gave it."

"How could it even do that?" Aly asks, frown firmly in place. "What's the difference, overall, between Jordan's memories and Gretzky's memories?"

"It's not just his memories," Connor replies, looking up. "It's _everything_. It's every single thing about him except for his hockey. McSorley didn't give that up, because to him, that's who Gretzky _was_ , but if he gave it everything else…"

"It has his soul," Aly says, sitting up straighter. She looks around the room, then leans forward to put her bottle on the coffee table. "McSorley bargained with Gretzky's _soul_."

"And demons hold onto souls," Connor adds. "Or, like. That's what everything I've read says."

"Oh my god," Ryan says faintly. Jordan knows exactly how he feels; the news had been bad enough, but figuring out these details is… he doesn't even have the words to describe it, not really.

"The question is," he finds himself saying, "if we manage to kill it, will Gretzky get his soul back?"

It's a terrifying question, and it seems like nobody has an answer for it; Jordan knows his words aren't actually echoing around in the apartment, but it sure feels that way. His memories had come back, sure, but they were only _memories_. Souls are a completely different story, and Jordan doesn't know how that one ends, doesn't even know the size or shape or scope of it.

"I think," Aly says slowly, "that it doesn't really matter, in the long run."

"How can it not matter?" Ryan blurts out. He sounds more shocked than angry, but it's definitely a mixture of both.

"Because he's been this way for thirty years," Aly says simply. "If there's no miraculous recovery, well, nobody's expecting one. He'll just continue to be who he's been, even if his soul doesn't find its way back to him."

"But it's his soul," Connor protests.

Aly smiles at him, gentle and tired all at once. "He's been living without it for longer than he had one."

"Gods above," Jordan mutters, leaning back. "We found out the answer to our original question, and it somehow made this whole situation seem worse instead of better."

"That's the risk of asking questions, I guess," Ryan says. He sounds just as unsettled as Jordan feels. "I hope the rest of our questions have better answers."

Connor groans. "Why would you say that out loud?"

"Superstitious?" Aly teases, grinning at them. "Wow, never thought I'd see the day. A superstitious hockey player."

It makes Jordan grin; he's always liked Aly, even more since he's learned everything she did in the wake of his deal with Puck, but he's never stopped being grateful for her. He hopes he never does.

"We can ask," Ryan suggests. "Weren't Stromer and Marns going to meet with Ovi again? Maybe they've got an update."

"To be honest with you, I'm a little afraid of their update," Connor admits. "I'm pretty sure Ovi was bringing Crosby into the discussion. I know we called him first, but if he's got a demon-killing idea…"

"It's probably not a small thing," Aly finishes. "I get wanting to put that off for a little while."

Connor gives her a smile. "And we can call Gabe, but the last I heard, there was a whole lot of nothing going on in that camp," he goes on. "They're sort of just waiting for something to fall into their laps, I guess."

"Not my favorite method of problem-solving," Jordan mutters.

"We're hoping to not have to use the 'bargain with Puck' method," Ryan says, sounding a little nervous, like he's not sure he's allowed to make the joke. It's a little ridiculous, honestly; if anyone other than Jordan and Taylor deserve to have a little bit of gallows humor around Jordan's shitshow of a life decision, it's the guy who had to handle the fallout on both sides.

"Fine," Jordan says, huffing exaggeratedly. "I guess we can figure something else out.

The smile Ryan breaks out is totally worth the way Jordan's not actually sure he's telling the truth.


	17. May: Nate

Nate really, really hates feeling useless, but by the time the second round of the playoffs is over, he's getting used to it.

"This blows," he complains, curled into Jo's side. They're staying with his parents until after the closing on the house they'd found; it's not a mansion, mostly because Jo had made a good point in arguing that just because they _could_ buy a six-bedroom house didn't mean that they _should_. When he'd pointed out that they were going to have to pay a caretaker during the season and that the smaller the house the less they'd have to worry about, Nate had caved. 

"What does?" Jo murmurs, petting at Nate's hair. He's got his phone in his other hand, searching through spellwork forums online. Their latest idea is to try to work with Picks' goalie ability to find things; Jo's been trying to figure out how to use the complicated magic that Picks had explained to them to find information instead of something tangible.

"Not knowing who did this," Nate says. "Not knowing how we can figure it out."

"We're working on it," Jo reminds him, shaking his phone in Nate's face a little. "We just have to figure out how to reconfigure—"

"Wait," Nate says suddenly, sitting upright. "A spell like the one in Denver, that's got a lot of energy, right?"

"Right," Jo agrees, turning to look at him patiently.

"And energy leaves a signature," Nate goes on. "How much of that energy is Puck's, and how much is from the person who did this?"

Jo's mouth drops open a little. "Holy shit," he breathes. "Puck's energy will mask a lot of it, but Picks should be able to sort through it and find what's human."

"And then we have the magical signature of whoever did it," Nate says triumphantly. "We'll have to figure it out from there, but that's closer than we are right now, right?"

Jo smiles as he ducks in to kiss Nate, quick and firm. "I'm going to call Picks," he says. "I don't know what kind of anchoring he'll need for that kind of spell, but we should probably plan to fly to Denver soon."

"I'm calling Gabe," Nate says, grabbing his phone and nodding at the other room. "He'll want to be there, too."

Jo nods and waves him out, already calling. Nate almost bounces up out of his seat, thrilled to have figured something out, even if it's not the total answer. Some progress is better than the jack shit they've figured out since Skinny's last revelation.

"Gabe, hey," Nate says when the phone connects. "Got any promo stuff? Any training sessions you can't reschedule?"

"What have you found?" Gabe asks, sounding almost eager.

"Nothing, yet," Nate says, grinning. "But I had an idea."

"Oh, hell, I'd better fly back to supervise, then," Gabe says, but he sounds more upbeat than he had on locker cleanout day, the last time they'd spoken face-to-face. "What's the idea?"

"Picks uses his goalie powers to figure out the energy signature of whoever did the summoning," Nate says. "I'm not sure how to connect that to a specific person, but at least then we'll know what it is."

"Nathan," Gabe says, a note Nate's only ever heard on the ice in his voice. "That is an _excellent_ idea."

Nate preens a little; part of him will always be in minor midgets, lapping up every compliment his coach gives him. "Jo's on the phone with Picks now," he says instead of thanking Gabe. "I'm not sure when he can get down to Denver, but I wanted to let you know that things were happening."

"Yeah, I'll be there," Gabe says. "I'm not doing anything here that I can't reschedule. Let me know when Picks is heading down and I'll book a flight, okay?"

"Will do," Nate confirms.

"We're getting closer," Gabe says right before he hangs up. It makes the hair on the back of Nate's neck stand up; he's not majorly bothered by the whole fae thing on a day-to-day basis, but occasionally Gabe slips up and some of the weird creepiness bleeds through. Nate's pretty sure that Gabe's eyes are glowing right now.

He wanders back into the living room; Jo's on the sofa, messing around on his phone. He looks up and smiles when Nate walks in. "Everything go okay?"

"Have you ever, like, studied fae mythology?" Nate replies as he sits down.

Jo levels him with a look. "You can probably guess the answer to that."

"There are these, like, legends," Nate says, waving his hand around broadly. "They call it the Wild Hunt? It's a big fae hunting group, and basically, you die if you see them or whatever."

"Did Landy say something weird?" Jo asks, clearly trying to hide his amusement. "Should we hide our eyes when he brings his mighty brethren down upon the Pepsi Center?"

"No," Nate says, making a face at him. "It's just that sometimes I can't forget that he's, y'know."

"Able to do some freaky weird magic shit," Jo says, and now he's definitely laughing.

"I was eighteen when I said that," Nate protests, but he's smiling. "C'mon, like you would have reacted any better?"

"Probably," Jo says, grinning. "I'm used to people being able to do more than one thing with their magic."

"You're the worst," Nate grumbles, settling back against Jo's side. "Why do I love you again?"

"My wonderful humor," Jo says flatly, poking Nate's side. "Also, I talked to your goalie and made plans for next week."

"Oh, right," Nate says, smiling against Jo's shoulder. "Good reasons."

Jo turns to smile at him. "We should let Davo know that we're making progress," he says. "Or that we're about to make progress."

"Later," Nate says, reaching for the clicker and turning the television on. "Let's watch some HGTV. We're gonna have to decorate a whole house soon."

"Which one of us is the worst, eh?" Jo replies, but he's smiling as he turns to watch.

-0-

The Pepsi Center is weird in the summer, and Nate really doesn't like it. It's not a revelation to him or anything; it's weird during the season, too, when it's between games and the ice isn't laid down. It's just that during the summer, there's no promise of new ice, and the whole arena is uncomfortably warm and far too dry. It feels like losing, like loss, and it makes something itch under Nate's skin.

"Breathe," Jo murmurs, giving Nate the hint of a smile as they walk towards the locker room. "We're here to work on the problem."

Nate smiles back. He's glad Jo hadn't said they're here to fix it; that's a little too optimistic, even if Nate's not gonna say that out loud to Gabe. "We're gonna figure it out," he says, and he doesn't have to fake the confidence in his voice. "Or, well, we're gonna give ourselves a huge clue."

"We are," Gabe confirms, coming up behind them and scaring the shit out of Nate. He whirls halfway around, glaring when Gabe just gives him a sunny smile. "This is a good plan, and it's going to help a lot."

Nate narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to flatter me to make up for sneaking up on us?"

"Would I ever?" Gabe asks, smiling wider.

"That's a yes," Jo says, sounding amused. 

"Fine, maybe," Gabe allows. "But we've got other things to consider, right?"

"You're the worst,” Nate says, but he's fighting a smile. He's glad they're fixing the whole Puck thing for a million reasons, but one of them is that he realy _likes_ this team, and he wants playing with them here to be something they can all enjoy instead of dread.

Picks is already in the locker room when they arrive. He's winding a bit of cord around his fingers again and again; the movement would probably be mesmerising if Nate had time to focus on it, but Gabe pokes his shoulder from behind, and his attention jerks away. By the time he looks back, Picks has the cord wrapped neatly around his thumb.

"A little something to help," he says when he catches Nate staring. "It'll keep me grounded when I go looking."

"An anchor," Jo supplies. "Good thinking."

Picks shrugs. "It's easy to find something when you know what you're looking for," he says. "Once you start looking for something vague, it gets... harder."

Nate shifts, a little uneasy. "Can we help?"

"Not really," Picks says, shrugging lightly. "Stay where I put you when we work the spell, I guess."

"Will do," Gabe says. "Are you ready, or do you need more time to prepare?"

Picks' expression is grim, but his eyes are fierce. "Let's find out who did this to us."

He stands up and heads for the ice; it's weird to follow a goalie who isn't crab-waddling in full gear down the hallway to the tunnel, but it's weirder still to emerge and walk out on the bare concrete floor where the rink should be. The Pepsi Center is between concerts, so the chairs are messily pushed away from the centre of the floor. It's good, Nate thinks. This way, nobody will be able to tell they were here, as long as they don't stay too long and get caught by the staff hired to set up for the next show. Or security. Nate's pretty sure Gabe could talk them out of any situation they ended up in, but he really doesn't want to risk not figuring this whole thing out today.

"Okay," Picks says, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stillness. He mutters something under his breath, and suddenly the binding mark is there, pulsing against the floor. Nate braces himself, but there's no backlash this time; whatever warding Nuge and Picks had done had held through the season, and it seems to still be going strong. "Are we ready?"

"Ready," Jo affirms, walking around to the other side of the binding mark. He's frowning slightly at it. "Should we do some sort of containment charm? Something to keep things from… getting out?"

"Are we in danger of that?" Nate asks, alarmed. "Because if we are, we should maybe call in some backup."

"Not really," Picks assures him. "It's not a bad idea, though. We're not letting the demon loose in our world, but setting up a containment charm would mean there's less space for anything to go."

"And hey, you have me as backup," Gabe says, giving Nate an easy smile. He cracks his fingers, totally for effect, and Nate rolls his eyes even as he calms down a little. Gabe turns to face Jo. "Can you pull one off? I can help if you need a hand, but I'd rather save my energy for the just-in-case scenario."

"I can do it," Jo says. He takes a few steps back, then claps his hands together and draws them quickly apart again. The ball of lightning in his hands is so bright that it's hard to look at, but Nate likes watching Jo work. He looks up, murmuring under his breath, and moves his hands, then grins. "Catch," he says, stepping back to his starting place and tossing the ball in a soft underhand arc over to Nate.

Jo's magic buzzes against Nate's skin, but there's a strange feeling of home in it, too. He doesn't really know the spell Jo was going for, but the magic hums gently through him, and Nate pushes it gently forward without really thinking about it. The lightning spins slowly until it's hovering over where centre ice would be, and then it drops to the floor and radiates outward, stopping when it touches Nate's and Jo's feet.

"Flashy," Gabe comments, but Nate can hear that he's actually kind of impressed. "Nice work, though."

Jo flashes him a quick smile and nods. "Picks?"

Picks unwinds the string and runs it through his fingers, taking a deep breath. "Don't step away from where you are unless something happens," he instructs. "I'm anchoring to you, too, so if you move, it'll disorient me."

Nate raises a hand, successfully ignoring the way Gabe rolls his eyes. "What counts as 'something happening?'"

"If I fall over, you can move," Picks says. "Otherwise, stay put."

"Got it," Nate says. He wants to ask for more particulars, but "stay where you are unless I don't stay where I am" is pretty clear. He'll probably end up deferring to Gabe or Jo on the moving thing, anyway.

"Here goes," Picks says. He closes his eyes and breathes out, slow and long, and when he opens them back up, it's like…

Nate's not sure how to describe it, he realises after a moment. He'd been expecting the glowing eyes thing; it's what he'd done earlier in the year, when he'd found the concealment charm, and Nate's seen him doing it other times, too. There's no glowing; in fact, if it was possible, Nate would say there's less light in his eyes than usual. Nate wants to reach out, to snap his fingers in front of Picks' face until he blinks and turns and grins, but he holds his place and keeps his eyes open.

"He's projecting," Gabe says softly, voice pitched to give Nate some breathing room. "This is a different kind of spell than he used last time. He's not looking around like he did then; he's actually actively searching."

"That's incredibly creepy," Nate says, hoping his voice sounds at least half as composed as he wants it to. "So he's not… in there?"

"Not completely," Jo answers. Nate turns to look at him, but Jo's frowning slightly in Picks' direction. "He's tied to his body. Not completely in, but not completely out."

"Why did nobody warn me about this?" Nate asks. It's not like it's actually affecting him, but he feels a little freaked out by it nonetheless. He focuses on centre ice, as if he can see Picks there if he tries hard enough. "When he said he was anchoring to us, he meant that super literally, didn't he?"

"Just stay still," Gabe says, voice a little amused. "Picks has done this before. He'll be fine."

Nate starts to roll his eyes and respond, but Picks lets out a weird, shivery noise, and Nate whips his head around to look. Picks is wavering slightly on his feet, but he blinks slowly and Nate lets out a relieved breath. He's clearly back from wherever he'd gone.

"I found it," Picks says. He looks at Jo. "Let the charm go; nothing got in or out. I want to show you guys what I found."

Jo nods and reaches towards the ground, stretching his fingers out. The magic rushes from the floor back up towards him, then dissipates. "What do you have?" he asks, shaking his hand and walking towards Picks.

"It feels familiar," Picks says slowly, rolling his shoulder slowly. "I think it must be someone in Denver. I've met them before."

Nate reaches out when he gets closer, stopping with his fingers near the shimmering thread in Picks' grasp. He's hit with an instant wave of familiarity, and his eyes go a little wide. "Wait, I know this, too."

Gabe reaches out next, but Jo hums and shakes his head. "If they know, you'll know," he says, reaching out. "I shouldn't—"

Nate fills in the blanks when Jo doesn't go on. "But you do."

"But I do," Jo says slowly, pulling his hand back and looking at Gabe. "Either it's someone in Denver who I've met, or it's someone else."

Gabe reaches out more slowly than the rest of them had, pinching the thread in two fingers and taking it from Picks. "It's not someone in Denver," he says after a moment. "This is… there are few people this powerful in this area. None of them feel like this."

"That's not exactly great news," Picks says. "Although it does reinforce the theory that it's not actually about us."

"And makes me extra glad we decided to keep this on the down low," Jo adds. "This could be… it could be a lot of people. It could be whoever we went to for help."

"Well, it's someone we've all met, and it's someone above the team level," Nate says, drawing back a little. "I think it's time to make a list."


	18. May: Connor

Part of Connor isn't actually surprised when Jo calls, telling him in even tones that they're one step closer, that it's someone everyone there had met before. He's tired, mostly, from going through two rounds of the playoffs with nothing to show for it, and from dealing with this whole demon-killing thing. He slumps back on the sofa at Ryan's place, turning his head slightly when Ryan comes in. "Hey."

"Hey," Ryan replies, dropping the mail on the table. "Any news? Because all I've got is a text from Taylor about maybe watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ to get inspiration, and I'm not up to talking him out of that today."

Connor snorts. "Eh, let him have his fun." He shifts on the sofa. "Jo called."

"How'd the thing go?" Ryan asks, walking over to sit beside Connor. Connor debates the merits of leaning into Ryan's side before just going for it. Ryan shifts and slings an arm over Connor's shoulders, and Connor takes a slow three-count to just breathe.

"Good," he finally says. "They all recognised the energy signature."

Ryan hums a little. "Even Jo?"

"Yup," Connor confirms. "So it's not someone just in Denver."

"It's bigger than that," Ryan muses. "Someone at the League level."

"Looks like it," Connor says unhappily. "It's not like I was hoping that it would be a rival team, but it being someone at the League level is a whole other thing."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees. "Do we have any idea how to move forward with figuring out who it was?"

Connor shrugs a little. "Jo said that they can't actually, like, take anything out of the arena," he says. "So we can all go look at it and see if it rings any bells, but it's not like they can send copies."

"That makes sense," Ryan says. "When are we going?"

It makes Connor smile a little. "I haven't actually booked tickets yet."

"I'm shocked," Ryan says, poking him in the side. "I figured you'd have our bags packed already. We can probably still make the next flight to Denver if we rush."

Connor laughs at that, knocking his head against Ryan's shoulder. "I haven't talked to Ebs yet, either," he says. "I only got off the phone a few minutes before you walked in."

"So," Ryan says, dragging it out a little. "You've definitely already looked at flights."

"The next direct flight leaves at, like, six tomorrow morning," Connor says. "We can take one with layovers around nine tonight, but we wouldn't get there until around six in the morning anyway. It's probably better to get some sleep tonight and just fly there tomorrow, right?"

Ryan presses a kiss to his forehead. "I'll flip you for calling Ebs against packing," he says. "Heads or tails?"

Connor snorts and sits up. "I'll pack," he says. "Ask Ebs if he wants to meet us at the airport or if we should pick him up."

Ryan catches his wrist as he goes to stand, keeping him in place. Connor looks over, ready to ask, but Ryan leans in and kisses him properly, quick pressure, a light brush of his fingers through the hair at the nape of Connor's neck. He pulls back and smiles, tapping Connor's wrist lightly before letting go and pulling his phone out.

Connor smiles as he walks down the hallway. It's weird, he thinks, that things feel like they're looking up, what with the sort-of-bullshit exit from the playoffs and the whole demon situation, but here he is.

It doesn't take him long to pack; he finishes and wanders back out to the living room, but Ryan's still on the phone. Connor grabs his own phone and books their tickets and two hotel rooms. There's no use in waiting; it's not like Jordan's going to bail on them.

Ryan finishes a few minutes later and flops down, half onto the sofa and half in Connor's lap. "He's gonna meet us at the airport," he says. "We're all set?"

"We're all set," he confirms. "Bag packed, flight booked, hotel ready and waiting."

Ryan grins at him and puts a hand over his heart. "My organisational hero."

"Your something," Connor retorts, feeling his face flush. He's not really great at the whole snappy comeback thing.

It makes Ryan's face soften, though. "Yeah," he says, and Connor's glad they're alone, glad nobody else is here to see the way they're just kind of smiling at each other. The guys started fining them for excessive sappiness outside of the rink by about mid-December, and they've both forked over more than enough to the jar at this point.

"Yeah," Connor echoes back to him. He puts a hand on Ryan's hip, and Ryan reaches down to lace their fingers together. Connor doesn't want to picture the look on his own face, but he knows it's probably incredibly telling. It's not like Ryan's doing much better, though, so Connor keeps letting his face just be his face.

"Wanna put something on TV?" Ryan asks, not looking like he really cares, as long as Connor doesn't make him move too far.

"Sure," Connor says, not looking for the remote. "Do we have anything on the DVR?"

"Nah, everything good is over for the summer," Ryan says. "Netflix?"

"Dinosaur documentary?" Connor asks hopefully. Connor's the guy who never grew out of his dinosaur phase, and it's kind of a team in-joke, but Ryan sat down with him when they were first navigating this thing between them and pulled up a list of dinosaur documentaries he'd looked up online. It feels a little silly to say that that's when Connor knew that Ryan was really serious, but he's had a few daydreams about a bunch of their friends gathered together, him and Ryan standing up front, Connor saying something that starts with _I figured out that I probably loved you when you introduced me to Dinotasia_ and somehow doesn't end with everyone laughing their asses off. They're nowhere near that point, but it's nice to have dreams.

"I think the one with David Attenborough is still in my queue," Ryan replies, and yeah, Connor loves him.

-0-

Nate meets them at the airport in Denver. He looks way better than he had the last time Connor saw him; then again, it had been right after some kind of mental backlash from them finding Puck, so it's not actually surprising. He gives them all a half-hug and back slap combo, then steps back. "Gabe's getting your stuff from baggage," he says. "We brought two cars so nobody has to cram."

"Awesome," Jordan says. "It takes forever to get anywhere from the airport here."

Nate groans. "Tell me about it," he agrees. "Want to know a fun Denver fact?"

"Sure," Ryan says agreeably. "Which way is baggage? We can head to meet Gabe."

"Yeah, this way," Nate says, nodding his head down a hallway and starting to walk. "So there was no room in the actual city limits of Denver to build an airport, right? So they built it sort of on the outskirts, sort of in one of the suburbs."

"It's in Denver," Connor objects.

"Yeah," Nate says. "They built one long road out here, and then they made that one road a little skinny part of Denver with suburbs around it, and then they made the airport Denver, too."

Jordan laughs. "You're shitting me."

"I'm not," Nate confirms. "Look at a map of Denver sometime. There's the city, and then there's Peña Boulevard, and then there's the airport. It's ridiculous."

"Wow," Connor says, shaking his head a little. "That's… something."

Nate grins. "I love this city, don't get me wrong, but sometimes it's really…"

"American?" Ryan supplies dryly as they approach the baggage claim. It's not hard to spot Gabe; he's hard to miss anyway, and Jordan had just grabbed his Oilers-branded bag to throw his stuff in for the trip. Connor bites his lip at the sight of Gabe gesturing at the bag and talking emphatically to a woman who's just kind of glaring at the bag and nodding slowly.

"Do we save him?" Jordan asks, slowing down. "This is kind of funny. We could just record it."

"Did you get _traded_ to the _Oilers_?" a little kid yelps from about ten feet down the baggage claim. They all turn to watch as she separates herself from her family and tears towards Gabe, staring at the bag. "They can't trade you! You're the _captain_!"

She sounds like she's on the verge of tears, and Gabe crouches down and reaches out to her. "Hey, no," they can hear him saying.

Jordan sighs. "Okay, well, I've had my fun," he says, striding towards Gabe. "Hey! You got my bag for me!"

Gabe turns, and the look on his face is so relieved that Connor snorts a little. "Jordan! Yeah, I found it."

"Oh," the little girl breathes, staring at Jordan as her mom watches, clearly amused. " _You're_ allowed to have an Oilers bag."

"Thanks," Jordan says, smiling as he grabs it. "My friends didn't bring their cool Oilers stuff, though." He points back at Ryan and Connor, totally throwing them under the fan bus. They're not drawing a crowd, but Connor knows better than to think that'll keep. He's not gonna run away from a little kid, though, and damn Jordan for knowing that.

"I'll time us," Ryan says under his breath. "Ten minutes, tops."

"Sounds good," Connor mutters, then pastes on a smile and walks up to grab his and Ryan's bag. "Hi."

"Oh my _gosh_ ," the little girl says. Connor gets a flash of a memory, his mother saying _if you keep your face like that it'll stick that way,_ but he ignores it. "This is so _cool_!"

"It's cool to meet you, too," Nate says, ambling up behind them. "Are you an Avs fan?"

" _Oh_ my _gosh_ ," the girl repeats, voice going higher. "Yes! You're my favorite!"

Nate laughs a little. "Tell you what," he says, looking around. "If you want, my friends and I can all sign something for you, and then I'll sign another thing, just me. Sound good?"

She nods so fast it looks like it hurts, then starts running back to her family. Halfway there, she stops and turns around, narrowing her eyes at them. "Stay right there," she instructs, pointing.

"Okay," Gabe says, nodding at her as she starts running again. "We'll stay put."

Ryan laughs. "Keep crouching," he advises. "It's a great workout."

Gabe sniffs. "I already have a great ass, thanks."

"Let's not get into that discussion," Nate says hastily. "Last time it came up, he had charts."

"Oh no, I want to see the charts," Jordan says immediately. "Are they appropriately shaped?"

"What kind of person do you think I am, exactly?" Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow. "Of course they're appropriately shaped. Perfect bell curves, you might say."

"Oh my god," Nate groans. "Please stop. There are children."

"One day you'll be old enough," Connor says as solemnly as he can manage, patting Nate's shoulder.

"I hate everyone here," Nate says darkly.

It's over pretty quickly after that; the little girl comes back brandishing an Avs shirt and hat, and they sign them and head out pretty quickly. It's a little weird that nobody else bothered them, Connor thinks, but Nate starts laughing once they're heading to the car. "What did you even do?" he asks, shoving Gabe lightly.

"I got us out of there," Gabe says, rolling his eyes. "If you want, I can make them all chase us, but I thought we were on kind of a deadline here."

"What _did_ you do?" Ryan asks, voice curious.

"They didn't see us, after that little girl," Gabe says, shrugging. "Or, well. They saw us, but we're not the Broncos, and everyone there was suddenly convinced that they only cared about the Broncos anyway, so it wasn't worth bothering us."

"It's mostly even true," Nate volunteers. "I saw Von Miller get absolutely mobbed at a King Soopers once, and not a single person looked like they knew who I was."

"Not even Von Miller?" Gabe asks, putting a hand over his heart. "You'd think he's know a fellow Denver athlete."

Nate rolls his eyes. "As if."

Connor glances at Ryan and raises an eyebrow, and Ryan just smirks a little in reply. "He's… a Bronco?" Connor says, fake-innocent.

Gabe stops in his tracks and turns to look at them. "You're shitting me," he says flatly.

"Definitely a Bronco, then," Jordan fake-whispers.

"We should watch more football," Ryan says. "That's the one with the big upside-down goal at the end of the grass rectangle, right?"

Nate starts laughing, big, wheezing gasps, and Gabe rolls his eyes at them. "Assholes," he says, starting to walk again. "Why did I even invite you down here?"

It makes Nate stop laughing really abruptly, and Gabe winces. "Right," he says after a moment. "Now that I've killed the buzz, maybe we should just get to the arena."

"Yeah," Connor says, trying to keep his voice even. "Let's go."


	19. May: Gabe

It's a little odd, Gabe thinks, to be leading a troupe of Oilers through the belly of his arena, but it's not the first time he's had to do it and he knows it won't be the last. Hopefully, though, they can figure this out quickly. The fae parts of him aren't really as prevalent as he can make them seem sometimes, but he knows he's a little more territorial than the average human.

"Chill," Nate says under his breath, elbowing him in the side as Gabe swipes them into the arena. The daytime security people are too used to Gabe coming and going to really question him at this point, and he's grateful for it. It means he can shield his guests from them but not have to worry about things like sound, or the way the door opens. No use expending energy when he doesn't have to cover every little thing.

"Let's just get this over with," Gabe mutters back, holding the door open and smiling pleasantly at Justice, the guy at the door today. Everyone slips in unnoticed, and Justice gives Gabe a friendly wave as he walks in after them all.

They walk out the tunnel and head straight for where centre ice should be. There are no chairs around this time; Gabe's not sure what's on the schedule, only that there shouldn't really be anyone here today. It's easy enough to find: not only are they all hockey players, but there's something uneasy about the space where Puck is tethered. Gabe honestly doesn't understand how people can sit right there during concerts, but that's people for you. 

Davo sucks in a sharp breath almost as soon as he hits the area with the spellwork floating around it. Nate and Picks had worked some sort of weird variation on a concealment charm; it hides everything from people who don't know it's there, but if someone who knows about it touches it, everyone present can see it. Nate had made a Harry Potter joke, then rolled his eyes when Gabe had just stared at him. It's definitely working now, though, because Davo looks like he's seen a ghost.

A ghost he recognises, at that.

"Connor," Nuge says, moving to grab at his elbow. "Do you know who it is?"

"No," Davo says unsteadily. "Like, I can't say 'it's this person, let's go get them.' But I _know_ them."

"I do too," Ebs pipes up, but Davo shakes his head.

"No," he says again. "Not like—it's not just someone I've met once or twice."

Gabe opens his mouth, but Nate beats him to it. "I thought you weren't really magic."

"I'm not," Davo replies, shaking his head harder. He looks legitimately freaked out, Gabe notices, and he reaches out with his magic to nudge at Nuge's side. When Nuge glances over, Gabe cocks his head back towards the tunnel, and Nuge starts gently guiding Davo towards it. Nate follows them, but Ebs takes another step towards centre ice, frown tugging at his face.

"You recognise it," Gabe says. Ebs had already said it, but Gabe's not sure what else to lead with.

"Yeah," Ebs says, tilting his head a little bit. "Not well, though. Not like Davo."

"He gonna be okay?" Gabe asks, putting his hands in his pockets. Davo gives off a pretty unflappable vibe. Gabe's well aware of how appearances can be deceiving, though.

"Yeah," Ebs says without looking away. "I feel like…"

"What?" Gabe prompts when Ebs doesn't go on.

"We should be able to figure it out from this," Ebs says, finally looking up and meeting Gabe's eyes. "I'm a breaker, so I don't really know _how_ , but there's so much here."

"Nate and Picks and Jo couldn't figure it out," Gabe says. "I don't know if there's a way to, I don't know, trace it back to the source."

"Maybe not," Ebs mutters, turning to stare back at centre ice. The binding mark is visible, a hazy, smoky sort of tear in the fabric of reality. It would lie flat if the rink was in use, but as it is, it's floating a few inches above the dark, hard rubber of the Pepsi Center's flooring. "What if we put a trap here instead?"

Gabe takes a step forward. "How so?"

"Surprise," Ebs says, looking up and grinning at him. "You're on Candid Camera, scumbag."

It surprises a laugh out of Gabe. "Just something to trace who comes and goes?" he asks. "That's a lot of people, what with all the concerts."

"More focused," Ebs replies. "Something that makes a record of anyone who messes around with the spell, maybe?"

"Sure," Gabe says. "But if we do it in a way that's subtle enough to not alert whoever it is, then all we're gonna get is a magical signature. That leaves us pretty much right where we are now."

Ebs frowns again. "But at least we'd know someone was checking up on it," he points out. "If we know someone's poking at it, we can… I don't know, install a video camera right on the bottom of the Jumbotron."

Gabe snorts. "Security would definitely notice."

"That's a problem for future us," Ebs says, waving his hand dismissively. "Can you put something here to let us know if the person comes back?"

"I can," Gabe says. "Step back, though."

Ebs takes a few hurried steps backwards, and Gabe bites back a grin. It's not necessarily that he loves spooking people, but it's a little hard to not take some joy in it when it happens. He is who and what he is, after all.

It's not particularly difficult; Gabe pulls in a deep breath and blows out smoke, concentrating it around the binding mark, telling it to notice people who are specifically there to disturb it, to catch part of them and hold it tightly, to call out and let him know that something has happened. When he breathes out again, the smoke dissipates, curling up towards the top of the arena and disappearing.

"Neat," Ebs comments, and Gabe turns to grin at him. "All set?"

"All set," Gabe confirms. "Let's go check and see how the others are doing, eh?"

"Good plan," Ebs says, turning and heading towards the tunnel.

-0-

Davo is shaken but fine; Nate mutters to Gabe that it was more a reaction to feeling something magical that strongly than it was anything else. Something in Gabe eases a little at that, and he half-laughs at himself. Before Davo had freaked out, he'd been thinking territorial thoughts about the Pepsi Center; now, he's pissed at Puck for causing harm to one of his friends.

"Fae thing," he says to Nate when he gets a raised eyebrow.

The Oilers guys don't really hang around for long. Gabe doesn't blame them; it's not like there was much for them to do in Denver other than see if they recognised the magical signature, and once they confirmed that no, they couldn't put a name to it, there really wasn't a reason for them to hang around. Add onto that the twitchy look in Davo's eyes when Gabe suggested taking another look, and he's pretty prepared for it when Nuge asks him for a ride to the airport the day after they arrived.

"So," Gabe says. Nate was sitting on his sofa when Gabe got home from his airport run, and Gabe can't find it in himself to be surprised by that, either. "What do we do now?"

Nate frowns at him. "I'm not sure."

"I mean," Gabe says, "you have this whole house-buying thing you have to get back to Quebec for pretty soon, but I feel like we should still be doing… something."

Nate's face breaks into the most earnest, lovesick expression Gabe's maybe ever seen at the mention of his soon-to-be forever home with Jo. Gabe's happy for him, but he's pretty sure nobody can be happier than Nate is. "I do have to go back for that," he acknowledges. "Jo's tying up a bunch of loose ends now with the inspectors and stuff, so I'll pretty much just have to be there for the closing. We can both come back pretty much right after if there's something else to do."

"I'm sure there will be," Gabe says. "The trouble is figuring out what."

"Maybe we can call the other guys," Nate suggests. "They might be able to identify our person, or we might be able to help them with the demon-killing stuff."

"I think they've got a pretty solid idea going there," Gabe says. "There's pretty much no bigger firepower than calling in the hockey gods."

"Yeah, but they have no idea how they're gonna do it," Nate points out. "I was talking to Stromer the other day, and he's neck deep in library books, seeing if he can figure out how that actually goes."

Gabe blinks, a little surprised. "Wait, they don't know _how_?"

"You didn't know that?" Nate asks, clearly surprised himself. "Yeah, no. Sid and Ovi broke the news, but they didn't really offer any suggestions on how that was supposed to happen. I guess we could get back in touch with Ovi now that the series is over, but from the way Stromer was talking, it was all Sid's idea."

"They don't know," Gabe says, a little wondering. It's not like he's an expert at the way the hockey gods work; they're a completely separate thing from the fae realm, and they only have jurisdiction over Gabe and Nicke and beings like them insomuch as they have control over their teams. Still, though, the answer is clear to Gabe.

"You okay over there?" Nate asks, leaning forward a little.

"We have to call them," Gabe says, reaching for his phone. "We need—I know what they have to do."

"How?" Nate asks, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket as well. Gabe dials Jeff, and he doesn't have to tell Nate to call Strome or Marner; they're enough in sync, captain and alternate, that they both know who they're responsible for.

"Hallsy," Gabe says as he puts his phone on speaker.

"No, this is Hanny," comes out of the speaker. "And you dialed Skinner, so, like. Failure."

"Shush, you," Gabe says, half-grinning. "I'm calling to fix your problem, which is also Hallsy's problem, but I'm not sure how to get him on this call."

"Skype," Nate says, holding his phone to his ear. "What—no, Marns, hang on."

"Skype," Gabe agrees. "Hanny, can you and Jeff be on in five minutes or so?"

"You got it," Hanny replies, hanging up.

Nate relays the same message to Marns as Gabe grabs his computer. It takes a little while to get the call connected, but finally they've got everyone on screen.

"So," Hallsy says. "You've got a lead for us on the hockey gods?"

"I can't believe Nicke didn't say anything," Gabe says, suddenly brought up short. "He was there, right?"

"Backy? Yeah," Marns confirms. "He was for sure right there."

"Why would he not have—" Gabe starts, then shakes his head. "Whatever. Nicke's weird anyway."

"Can I quote you on that?" Jeff asks, clearly amused. "Specifically, can I tell _him_ you said that?"

"Don't you dare," Gabe says sternly, and he hears more than one of the others smothering laughter. "Anyway, I have more than just a lead for you. I know what you're going to have to do."

"Tell us, oh my god," Stromer says, leaning forward. "Everything I've found about summoning is either super-specific to certain gods, or it's completely batshit."

Gabe hesitates a little. "You're not going to like it," he hedges a little.

"Are we going to have to sacrifice someone?" Stromer asks. "Because if it's that, then no thanks, we'll find something else. Other than that, I'm all ears."

"No human sacrifice," Gabe confirms. "But you're going to have to figure out a lot of logistics."

"Those we can handle," Marns says confidently.

"Okay," Gabe says, and then he explains.


	20. May: Taylor

Taylor is trying pretty hard to not think about what Landy had said. It's not going to be his responsibility, the summoning part of things, so he actually doesn't _have_ to think about it, but part of him is wondering how they're gonna pull it all off.

It's currently a pretty small part, though, because there's someone knocking at his door and Taylor's kind of vaulting over the back of the sofa in his excitement. He trips the last few steps and manages to make himself take a deep breath before he flings it open, smile like a wild thing on his face.

"I heard you running," Jordan says immediately, smiling just as hard at him.

"Holy shit, hi," Taylor breathes, reaching for him with both hands. Jordan's already moving, and they kind of collapse into each other, holding on like Taylor thinks they always are, sort of. It's just that right now it's physical, something that other people can see.

"Hi," Jordan murmurs into his shoulder, rocking them back and forth a little. He doesn't try to pull away, and Taylor doesn't know how to not be grateful for it, not with everything that's gone down, not with how he's not able to see Jordan on a daily basis.

They finally pull apart, but neither of them really goes far. Jordan leans back to grab the handle of his suitcase so he can drag it in, but from there they go to the kitchen for post-travel snacks, then to the sofa for post-snack cuddling. There's a point in his past in which Taylor would've hesitated to say he was cuddling with anyone, but it's so far behind him that he can't even remember what it would feel like to cringe at the thought.

"I'm glad you're here," Taylor mumbles into Jordan's hair, probably a full hour after he first opened the door. "I missed you."

"I've missed you too," Jordan says. Taylor can feel him smiling against his collarbone, right through his shirt. "I wish we were still on the same team."

"Or at least closer," Taylor says, closing his eyes. "But, like, that would also suck a little? Because I don't really think it would be good for me to go back to Edmonton, and it really blows getting traded away from there, and I don't want that for you."

"Sign in Calgary," Jordan suggests.

Taylor snorts. "I love myself, though," he says, and feels Jordan shaking with laughter. "Seriously, though."

"I'd get traded if it meant we could be close again," Jordan says, and Taylor has to keep himself from hugging Jordan hard enough to hurt.

"Love you too," he says. It hurts, almost, how much he loves Jordan, like a physical part of him that he doesn't know how to control.

"Hey," Jordan says, pulling back a little and smiling. "Show me your magic thing."

Taylor waggles his eyebrows; it's easier to be over-the-top than it is to have too many feelings, and he's glad that Jordan knows him well enough to know that. "My magic thing, huh?"

"Well, maybe _that_ later," Jordan says, somehow keeping a straight face even though Taylor snorts. "Come on, Taylor. Show me."

"What do you want to see?" Taylor asks, turning so he's facing Jordan on the sofa. "Nothing too big. I'm working on it, but I'm not great at big yet."

"A hockey puck," Jordan says.

Taylor rolls his eyes. "I should have guessed," he says, but he holds his hand out and thinks, and Jordan's little inhale of breath when the puck appears makes Taylor prouder of himself than he knew he could be, kind of.

"Wow," Jordan says, almost reverent. He reaches out and traces the edges, then wraps his fingers around the edge and picks it up. It disappears as soon as Taylor stops touching it, and Jordan grins, bright and wide. " _Wow_ , Taylor."

"It's cool," Taylor replies, trying to be modest but mostly failing, if the look on Jordan's face is any indication. "Man, I need to introduce you to Dorito."

"I've seen Doritos before, Taylor, I'm not— _holy shit_!" Jordan yelps as Taylor calls his little dragon into his palm. He'd experimented with little dragon clothes, but Dorito's a big fan of eating them and/or tearing them to shreds, so he's just his cool little naked dragon self now.

"He's a tiny dragon," Taylor says, letting his voice be as smug as he wants. He has a _dragon_.

"Oh my god," Jordan says, leaning down until he's face-level. "Does he breathe fire?"

"Yeah," Taylor says. "Not, like, tons of it, but don't piss him off while your face is down there."

"That is the coolest thing I have ever seen," Jordan says, voice almost reverent. "Can I pet him?"

"He likes it if you scratch behind his ears," Taylor says. "I think he might be part cat, to be honest with you."

Jordan snorts and holds his fingers out, letting Dorito sniff at them. "I mean, Dorito is the first dragon I've ever met, but I'm pretty sure most dragons are at least a little bit cat."

"Fair," Taylor agrees. He sets Dorito down in his lap and lets him waddle around a little, watching to make sure he doesn't nip at Jordan's fingers when he reaches out to give ear scritches. Dorito lets out a croaky little grunt and pushes his head up against Jordan's fingers, tilting his jaw a little, and Taylor can tell Jordan's pretty much in love.

"I'm so sad that he disappears when you stop touching him," Jordan says, confirming what Taylor had been thinking. He rubs his fingers gently under Dorito's chin, and Dorito makes a high-pitched squeaky sound that Taylor's never heard before. "He's so cute."

"He's the best," Taylor agrees, smiling. "I make him a little bigger every time I summon him. It's actually good practice."

"Wait, he was even tinier?" Jordan asks, looking from Dorito to Taylor and back again.

"Watch," Taylor instructs. He puts his finger on Dorito's back and concentrates, and Dorito shrinks down to the size he was when Taylor first summoned him. He squeaks indignantly and turns around, snapping a little at Taylor's fingers, and Taylor strokes his ears fondly. "This is Little Dorito."

"He got cuter," Jordan whispers, awed. "How big can you make him?"

"Like, throw pillow sized?" Taylor estimates. "But I can't hold him that size for very long."

"You can make things that are throw pillow sized," Jordan repeats, looking at Taylor. "That is… I mean, sort of crazy? But also totally cool."

"Wait, no," Taylor says, grinning. "Dorito, buddy, I'll see you later." He taps Dorito on the head and lets him go, then looks back at Jordan. "I can do bigger, just not with living things. Ready for this?"

"Uh, yes," Jordan says, eyes pretty much shining with excitement.

Taylor gets up and puts his hand out, thinking as clearly as he can. He's done it a few times before, once to sort of hilarious failure and a few times successfully, so he knows it's possible. Sure enough, his entertainment centre copies itself, from the wooden stand to the television and everything in between.

"Oh my god," Jordan says, delighted, reaching for the clicker. "Does it work?"

"Yeah," Taylor says, laughing when Jordan turns both televisions on with the same button. "Double vision, though."

"Who cares?" Jordan asks, stretching out. "Now I can see what's going on no matter which way I'm facing."

Taylor rolls his eyes and pulls his hand back, making the second entertainment centre blink out of existence. "Nice try."

Jordan gives him a grin, shifting on the sofa. "Still like what I see," he counters, and Taylor grins back, grabbing the clicker to shut the remaining television off as he joins Jordan on the sofa.

-0-

By the time the conference finals are over, Taylor's starting to get actually worried about the whole Puck situation. Like, he's getting a lot better at the whole demigod thing, and he knows that his role will basically be to cause as much of a distraction as he can while everyone else does their part, but he's going to be a huge part of killing a demon. It's not that he doesn't like his team's odds; it's just that if for some reason they don't come out on top, well. He doesn't actually want to deal with that.

"It's going to be fine," Jordan tells him when Taylor voices his concerns. They've been working on Taylor's summoning abilities since Jordan arrived; it's not like Jordan can actually help, but he suggests things that Taylor hasn't thought of yet, and makes him change things in ways Taylor wouldn't dream about. It's a lot more fun than doing it on his own, and it lets him see exactly what a gingerbread house decorated to look like peacock feathers would look like, among other things.

"Well, yeah, probably," Taylor says, changing the peacock coloring from green and blue to purple and yellow mostly because he can. He frowns at it, thinking a little, and then the feathers start moving. It's kind of cool, but also kind of nauseating. "But what if it isn't?"

"Then it isn't," Jordan says, way more simply than that thought really deserves.

Taylor pulls his hands back; the gingerbread house doesn't even have the decency to collapse before it disappears. "We should have a backup plan."

"Like what?" Jordan asks. "It's not that I disagree with you, Taylor, but as far as I know, we're on the only plan that anyone thinks has a chance of working."

"We are," Taylor says, blowing out a breath. He cups his hands in front of himself and blinks, and then Dorito is climbing up his arm to sit on his shoulder. It's not like Dorito is actually a security blanket, but Taylor likes having him around anyway. "I just feel like we should have something else. Just in case."

"We can work on that," Jordan says, but he doesn't sound super convinced. To be fair, there probably isn't anything else, but Taylor appreciates the thought.

"It's fine," he says, sighing as he glances across the room. He reaches out for the coffee mug he'd left on the bookshelf this morning, only remembering that he didn't actually finish the coffee in it as it's flying across the room to him, liquid sloshing everywhere.

Jordan snorts. "Can you summon the coffee to the sink?" he asks, looking at the now-damp carpet. "Because if not, we're gonna need to venture into that cabinet under your sink where your mom put all the cleaning products and see if there's anything in there other than Windex."

"There is," Taylor protests. He doesn't know _what_ , precisely, but he knows there's more than that. "Let me see, though."

The coffee rises easily enough out of the carpet, but Taylor doesn't know how to make it do anything other than come to him. He frowns at it for a moment, then cautiously hold the mug out, hoping that it'll do as he asks. The coffee just sort of hangs in the air, and just as Taylor sees Jordan open his mouth to comment, it all rushes through the air and splashes his entire front as it goes for the mug.

"Well," Taylor says, sighing as he looks in the mug, "some of it got in there, anyway."

"Let's just clean the rest of it up the regular way," Jordan says. He's definitely laughing at Taylor, but Taylor's covered in coffee. He can see the humor here.

"But it's good practice," Taylor says, holding the mug up a little. He's trying really hard not to start laughing along. "Look!"

The coffee rises from the floor around Taylor and heads for the mug, but the coffee already in the mug rises, too, and before Taylor can stop it he's wearing more coffee, and there's even less in the mug.

Jordan's laughing so hard that he falls to the sofa, clutching at his stomach, and Taylor lets himself laugh, too. His place is going to smell like coffee for a while, probably. It's a good thing he likes the scent.

"Okay," Jordan wheezes after a few minutes. "Let's clean up, and then we can talk about a backup plan."

Taylor nods and carries his mug to the sink. It doesn't take long to clean up, actually; Taylor pulls the coffee out of the carpet, and Jordan catches it in a big bowl that they found in the cabinet above the refrigerator. After that, it's just a matter of Taylor changing his clothes and they they can sit back in the coffee-free living room together.

"I don't have any ideas," Jordan starts, very matter-of-fact.

"Uh," Taylor says. "Me neither."

Jordan snorts. "Okay," he says. "Do you have anyone we can ask?"

"My mom?" he says, kind of uncertain. "I mean, she's a goddess. Maybe she'll know something."

"I feel like if she had any earth-shattering ideas, she would have mentioned them by now," Jordan counters. He's probably right, but Taylor really doesn't have a better idea. They call her anyway, and it's as much of a dead end as Jordan has predicted. It makes Taylor stare kind of morosely at his entertainment centre for a minute afterward.

"What if," he says slowly. "What if we, like, went public with the whole thing?"

Jordan opens his mouth, but then shuts it and looks at Taylor, face thoughtful. "I don't think it's a good idea," he says slowly. "Not a good first plan, anyway."

Taylor reaches out so he can flick at Jordan's shoulder. "We're trying for a backup plan here."

"It might make a good backup plan, but maybe not in the way you're thinking," Jordan says, rubbing a little at his shoulder. "Like, we can maybe leave something here with someone. Your mom, maybe. And if things go bad and we don't come back…"

Now it's Taylor's turn to do the fish-face thing. "That won't help us!"

"No," Jordan says simply. "Honestly, Taylor, I think if things go wrong while we're in Denver… I don't think there's any helping us at that point."

"But leaving something behind could get someone else to fix it," Taylor says, catching on. "Even if we're not around to do it ourselves." It's weird to talk about, Taylor finds; he's calm, casual, talking to his partner about how they might go to Denver to fix everything and then just never come home.

"I mean, hopefully we won't need it," Jordan says, reaching out. Taylor takes his hand and squeezes a little. "But it might not be a bad idea, as a plan of last resort."

"Very last resort," Taylor agrees. "You tell Davo, I'll call my mom and ask her if she'll hold onto something like that?"

Jordan squeezes his hand again before dropping it. "Deal."


	21. June: Puck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have family in town, so here, have this chapter in the middle of the night, because i will not be around tomorrow during my normal posting time!
> 
> also, as of the middle of this week, this fic is completely written and edited. this is the second-to-last part, and the rest will be posted next sunday!

The humans are… concerning, Puck decides. They make no sense; they follow no rules, no logic. In Edmonton, they had broken Puck's ties almost as soon as they'd discovered them; in Edmonton, they hadn't given Puck a chance to prepare, to defend. In Edmonton, they'd been cunning, bold. Surprising.

In Denver, they remain surprising. Puck has seen too much of humankind and demonkind alike to be shocked by much, but as time drags on and no attack comes, the wariness grows. Surely the humans wouldn't just walk away. Surely they're planning something. Surely Puck is right in keeping constant watch.

There is a charm, now, one that is less charm and more the kind of magic that tears its way through Puck's being. It watches, and Puck thinks: it is a good thing that Gary Bettman is a brash, overconfident fool of a human. Were he less sure that his plan would remain undiscovered, then his identity would be discovered before he was ready. Puck would almost wish for it, if only as an end to the interminable waiting.

There is no enjoyment to be found in the thought of fighting; the humans are clearly better prepared this time. There are those among them who are Other, in one way or another; they present some challenge, but nothing that Puck cannot face. Knowledge is power, after all, and Puck knows the one who smiles, whose magic is too close to Puck's own to keep its influence out. Puck is aware of the powerful one, of the human half-bear it keeps, of the one who knows not his own strength. Puck _knows_ these humans and the ones they keep close. It is possible to fight them, to defeat them, but there will be no pleasure in it. There will be far too much _work_ for that.

Puck resolves not to be surprised again, though. There is work to be done there, too, so it sits, and it watches, and it learns.


	22. June: Noah

The things that Noah has learned about killing demons can be summed up in one thought: don't try if you don't absolutely have to.

He'd known from the start that it was going to be kind of awful and more than kind of hard. That's generally the way it goes with impossible things; sometimes you can do them, but there's always a price. Noah had worried that the price might end up being one of them, one of the guys he's been working with on the whole demon problem, but now he's in way over his head, hoping that a plan to summon the hockey gods to battle a hockey demon will work out without all of them being collateral damage.

It's a little stressful, is what Noah's saying.

Landeskog's revelation had been simple, and it makes complete sense: in order for the hockey gods to appear, they need to ask for it to happen. The hockey gods have favored certain players, and therefore, those are the players who need to make that request, and they need to do it in the place where the help is needed. It sounds so simple like that, but the reality is that it means that Davo, Crosby, and Wayne Gretzky himself have to go into Puck's dimension and basically pray for help.

Noah doesn't love the idea, but he doesn't have anything even halfway as good in his back pocket to present as an alternative. The best he'd been able to suggest was that they send as many people in as possible; they can distract Puck, or maybe protect the summoners while they do their thing. He doesn't know how, exactly, he plans on protecting magicless Connor McDavid from an actual demon that their friendly neighborhood fae prince has admitted he can't kill, but if nothing else, he can… slow Puck down. Maybe. Probably.

"Stop thinking about it," Jeff says.

"You can't even see me right now," Noah replies, glancing at his phone. He and Jeff have been on speakerphone for the better part of an hour, Noah sprawled across his bed at his parents' house, knowing Jeff's probably doing the same in Markham. They're ostensibly planning things, but in reality they're just kind of basking in each other's company, even if it's only over the phone. They'd agreed that going home was for the best for a little while, so Noah's been getting used to sleeping curled around a pillow and waking up alone again.

"I've met you before," Jeff says, unimpressed. "Some people might say we know each other pretty well by now."

" _Yeah_ they would," Noah says, waggling his eyebrows even though, as he'd just mentioned, Jeff can't see him.

Jeff laughs. "That's better," he says. "We're gonna figure it out, Noah. Don't worry so much."

"It's what I do," Noah informs him. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you're dating a worrier."

"I think you're gonna have to throw down with Stromer for that job description," Jeff says. "He's our self-appointed worrier-in-chief."

Noah smiles a little. "Nah, he can have the crown. I'm content to be the junior worrier. Associate worrier, maybe."

"Vice-worrier," Jeff suggests. "Although I think he's got the top three positions filled, at least. It's kind of his thing."

"I mean, it _is_ one of his best friends who's gonna have to go in and try to summon the hockey gods while basically defenseless," Noah acknowledges. "I guess he's allowed."

"We're gonna protect them," Jeff says confidently. "We'll figure out how. We've got, like, a month."

It makes Noah sigh a little. "Doesn't seem like a lot of time, to be honest with you."

"It's really not," Jeff admits. "But I've got faith in us, y'know? I really think we're gonna be able to do it."

"I've definitely heard you be more sure about things," Noah drawls.

Jeff laughs, muffled a little bit over the phone line, and Noah misses him dearly, sharply, suddenly. "If I wake up knowing that we're gonna win, I'll let you know right away," he promises. "Even if it's early in the morning and I know you're still asleep."

"That's news I'll be happy to wake up early for," Noah assures him. 

"If it registers," Jeff teases. "Maybe I'll call your mom, get her to put some coffee on, and then call you."

"Probably not the worst plan," Noah says, smiling. He's the absolute opposite of a morning person, and it's not really a secret.

They both go quiet for a little while. Noah doesn't mind; it's enough knowing Jeff's there. It's nice, having someone he doesn't need to fill the silence with.

Finally, Jeff sighs. "We should maybe get a meeting set up," he says. "Get as many of the guys together as we can. Everyone we've been talking to except Crosby is done playing, and it's not like we don't know what Crosby's part in all of this is going to be."

"Not a bad idea," Noah says. "Do we group text it, or should we call everyone?"

"I vote we call Davo and make it his problem," Jeff says, laughing a little. "He's the captain, right?"

"He is," Noah confirms. "But, like. Not to vice-worry at you, but I feel like he might be stressing out about the whole 'hockey god summoner' thing right now, y'know?"

"Point," Jeff acknowledges. "So maybe we can call and give him a heads up, but then mass text?"

"Ugh, this is gonna be a nightmare to schedule," Noah says, making a face. "Let's maybe pick a few days and toss them out, see who can make it when?"

"You have a backup career as a calendar, if the hockey thing doesn't work out," Jeff says. He's clearly trying not to laugh, and Noah can picture it pretty clearly. "What days are you thinking?"

Noah rolls his eyes a little, and Jeff laughs like he knows. "I don't actually know without looking at my calendar," he says, mostly just to be contrary.

"How convenient that it's on your phone, then," Jeff says as Noah's rolling over to grab his phone.

He scrolls through his calendar quickly; he doesn't have much on it right now besides training, and a lot of that can be moved around this early in the off-season. He knows most of the other guys will be the same; it's really everyone who's out of North America for the summer who's going to have issues. And Davo, probably. Everyone wants a piece of Davo's time.

"Maybe we should ask Davo when he's free, and go from there," Noah says after a minute. "Unless you've got something you can't miss next week."

"Aw, come on," Jeff says, smile in his voice. "You don't already know, Calendar Guy?"

Noah frowns a little. "Wasn't that, like, some kind of Batman bad guy? In the cartoons?"

"I have no idea," Jeff says. He's absolutely laughing now. "But we can just ask Davo what he's doing this week. I don't have anything going on."

"Okay, sounds like a plan," Noah says. "And by the way, if I'm Calendar Guy, that makes you… Weekly Planner Man or something. My weirdly-named sidekick."

"Weekly Planner Man," Jeff repeats, laughing so hard that Noah has to move the phone away from his ear a little. "We need shirts."

Noah grins. "Tell Faulker," he suggests. "And be prepared for everyone on the team to have their own shirt."

"Only if we can come up with all of them," Jeff says.

"Well, clearly," Noah replies. "We need to call Davo, but then we need to make a list."

"I'll start the Google Doc while you're on the phone," Jeff promises. "Call me back when you're done."

"Will do," Noah says, smiling as he hangs up.


	23. June: Jo

"We can't get a dog this summer," Jo says as he steps out onto the back porch. "It's already almost a week into June. We won't have enough time to get it all housebroken before the season starts."

Nate steps out beside him and spreads his arms, gesturing to the yard. "But there's so much room for him to run around."

"It's not going anywhere," Jo says, amused. "It'll still be right where we left it when we get back next summer."

"Okay, fine," Nate says, voice a little wistful. "Our future dog will like it next summer, then."

Jo smiles and wanders over to the railing. The house is nice; it's big enough for visitors, but not so big that it's intimidating. Seven bedrooms is about four too many, no matter what the realtor had tried to sell them.

"So," Nate says, settling beside him. "What are you thinking about this meeting thing?"

"That we need to have it, but I'm not exactly looking forward to it," Jo says, turning his head so he can study Nate's profile. Something swoops in Jo's stomach; Nate's really beautiful on any given day, but there's a different feeling about it right now, like watching him be comfortable in this space they're making together makes him even more enthralling to look at.

Jo rubs absently at the mark on the back of his left hand, a small circle with a neat slash splitting it exactly in half. It's only ever possible to see it when they're both in Quebec, but ever since they moved into the new place, it's been getting more and more prominent. Nate's is, too, and Jo wonders how bright they'll get, if they'll take longer to fade when the summer is over.

Nate turns to look at him, smiling softly, and Jo realises belatedly that Nate's touching his own mark. "It's good, being here," he says, tilting his head out towards the yard, towards Quebec in general. "I'm glad you thought of it."

"Me too," Jo says, smiling back. "Too bad we have to go to Toronto in a few days."

"We'll be back," Nate says confidently. "And at least we're not going back to Denver. I have the feeling the whole meeting will go a lot more smoothly if we're not where Puck can reach out and mess with us."

"I just want everything to be over already, "Jo says, sighing a little. "And for everyone to be safe. The longer this goes on, the worse I feel about the whole thing."

"Hey, no," Nate says, shifting so he can sling an arm over Jo's shoulders and draw him in. "I'm not gonna say our plan is foolproof or anything—"

Jo barks out a laugh, and Nate squeezes his shoulders.

"It's gonna work, though," Nate continues. "It _is_ , Jo."

"I wish I had your faith," Jo says. "I mean, I wish that a lot, but right now, I really mean it."

"Well, it's a plan that involves you and me," Nate says, voice light. "How could I do anything but believe in us?"

"Charmer," Jo says, but he leans more into Nate's side. 

Nate squeezes his shoulders again. "Can't help it."

"Yeah, I bet," Jo says, laughing a little. "I feel like our odds are good because there are so many people involved, but I also feel like that increases the chances that someone gets… hurt." Or worse, but Jo doesn't have to put the words out there. He's sure Nate hears them anyway.

"Someone might," Nate says after a moment. He sounds subdued, and Jo slips his arm around Nate's waist. Just because Nate's comforting Jo right now doesn't mean Jo can't also comfort Nate.

"But that's why we're having a meeting, I guess," Jo says. "So we can figure out how to keep that from happening."

"I wonder if there's some way to, like," Nate says, then falls quiet, slight frown on his face. "Can we prepare spellwork ahead of time, and then bring it in with us? Healing, or a ward, or some kind of shield?"

Jo laughs a little. "What, like you can do in video games?"

Nate nudges him. "Hallsy has a dragon," he says. "Sometimes video game shit is real."

"I don't know of any way to do that," Jo says. "Maybe we should ask at the meeting. There will be people there from a lot of different magical backgrounds; they might know things we don't."

"No magical Quebecois solution for us?" Nate teases. "Have you texted St. Louis? He might know something."

"He doesn't," Jo says, shrugging a little. "He told me that demons were, quote, above his pay grade, unquote."

"Pretty sure they're above mine, too," Nate says. "But I don't really blame him for not wanting in on this action."

"I'm sure if I called and asked, he'd come help," Jo says. "But I don't want to pressure him into it, and at this point. I don't know how much of a difference one person is going to make, even if it _is_ Martin St. Louis."

"I won't tell him you said that," Nate promises, clearly holding back a laugh.

"You can tell him," Jo says, grinning. "He's old and slow and retired now. I can outrun him."

That makes the laugh shake loose, and Jo feels it as much as he hears it. "Next time I run into him, I will," Nate says. "I'll let you know what he says."

"Sounds like a deal," Jo replies. "We should probably pack for Toronto, eh?"

"Probably," Nate agrees. He leans over and presses a kiss to Jo's temple. "The sooner we get this figured out, the better."

"From your mouth to the ears of the gods," Jo says, bumping their hips together before pulling away and heading inside.

-0-

The meeting is, for some reason, being held in Mitch Marner's parents' backyard. It's far from the strangest thing that Jo's gone through with the whole demon thing, so he just nods politely at Marns' family and walks through the house with Nate.

"Hey, guys," Stromer calls, poking his head through a screen door. "Back here. You're not late, but Ovi's already here, and he's telling everyone that if he got here faster from Russia, then that makes anyone who gets here after him late by default, so… be prepared, or something."

Jo snorts. "Thanks, I guess."

"I do what I can," Stromer says dryly.

They follow him into the backyard; sure enough, Ovi tries to heckle them for being late. It feels more like a gathering of friends than it does something more serious, but Jo's not going to complain about it.

"Okay," Davo says eventually. It's probably about half an hour after Jo and Nate arrived; Hallsy and Ebs just walked in, and by Jo's count, they're the last ones. "So."

"So," Picks echoes. "Show of hands, who's a little freaked out?"

Pretty much everyone's hands go up; Stromer grabs Marns' arm and raises it in the air when he doesn't do it himself, and Backy looks mostly amused. It does break some of the tension, though, so Jo gives Picks a bit of a mental thumbs-up.

"We have our basic plan," Backy says. Everyone turns to look at him; it might be a fae thing, but it also might just be a Backy thing. "The hockey gods can take out this demon, and Gabriel remembered what I forgot." He flashes Landy a smile, and Landy returns it, wide and appreciative. No shame amongst fae, Jo supposes; but then, there wouldn't be.

"We need more than that, though," Nuge says. He's sitting next to Davo, and he doesn't exactly look like he's thrilled about the whole thing. "Puck's not just gonna let us walk in there and summon the hockey gods."

"Of course not," Backy says. "We'll need… distractions."

"Distractions," Hallsy says. "I'm guessing I'm on Team Distractions."

"Me too," Landy says. "Anyone who can make things happen is on Team Distractions."

"Yes and no," Ovi pipes up. "Some people go and distract the demon, yes, but not everybody."

Jo glances at Nate, who looks as confused as Jo feels. "What do the other people do?" Jo asks.

"Help the gods," Ovi replies easily, like that's not a ridiculous proposition at all. "They gonna take care of the demon. People who can break, we gonna find break points and snap them."

"Like we did originally," Marns says, leaning in a little bit. "So there's nothing left of Puck in Denver. No trace of the demon, no trace of the place it lived in."

"Exactly," Ovi says, nodding. "Who good at breaking?"

It's not a lot of them, when it comes down to it; Jo counts himself, Ebs, Marns, Hanny, and Ovi. Ovi makes a face, but he doesn't say anything else.

"I can," Landy starts, but Backy shakes his head.

"You're with me," he says simply, and Landy doesn't look like he'd even think to argue. He just nods and looks around.

"I have no idea," Taylor announces. "I've kind of been training with the goal of being a distraction, though, so I'm probably gonna be best at doing that."

"I can do it," Stromer says quietly.

Marns looks at him skeptically. "Uh," he says. "No offense, babe, but…"

"I can," Stromer repeats, louder this time. "How much studying and shit have we done since this whole thing started? I get the theory. I just need some practice, and we have a little time." He looks at Ovi. "I'll figure it out. I won't be as fast, but I can get it done."

"Good enough," Ovi says. "We work in teams, I think. Stromer, you stay with Marns, he watch your back. Ebs and Hanny, you work together, and Jo, you with me. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," Jo says. It does, too; Ebs' and Hanny's magics will work similarly enough that they shouldn't have problems, Marns will absolutely want to be the one watching Stromer's back, and Jo certainly doesn't mind the thought of working with Ovi. "Hallsy, Backy, and Landy are on Team Distractions. Where does that leave everyone else?"

"Protecting Davo," Picks says. "Or, well, Davo and Crosby and…"

There's an odd bit of quiet; everyone knows who the other person is, but it looks like nobody wants to mention him by name. Finally, Backy sighs. "Has anyone talked to Gretzky about this?"

"There's not much of a point in doing that," Ebs says, voice kind of dull. Jo remembers the news, that Gretzky's soul had been traded to summon and bind Puck the first time, and his stomach drops a little. "We'll bring him along, but that's really all we can promise."

"Aly," Nuge says suddenly, reaching out and tapping Davo's wrist. "We should bring Aly. She can be on Gretzky-handling detail."

"We'll ask," Davo promises. He glances around. "She's one of the trainers for the Oilers. She knows everything that's going on, and about Gretzky's... condition."

"Yes, good," Ovi says, nodding. "Bring her. The more help, the better."

Jo squirms a little. "I can call Martin St. Louis, but I'd rather not," he says. "I asked him early on, and he kind of said he was retired from… everything."

"Let him live," Backy says, small smile on his face. "He's earned a day or two off. We'll manage."

"Wait a second," Nuge says, frowning and tapping at his phone. "I mean, we'll manage, yeah. But there's a whole huge group of people who are going to probably murder us before Puck even gets the chance for not calling until now."

Davo glances over at Nuge's phone, and his eyes go wide. "Gods above, we're all doomed," he says flatly.

"I almost don't want to know," Hanny remarks.

Nuge looks up at him. "I have Hayley Wickenheiser's number," he says. "From Oilers stuff. She can get a bunch of the women's players to help."

There's another moment of silence. This time, it's broken by a long groan from Hallsy. "Wicks is gonna save us all just so she can kill us personally," he predicts. "Dibs on not calling."

"Wait, hang on," Skinner says, frowning a little. "What happened to not telling a ton of people?"

"We were trying not to let whoever set us up know we were looking around," Nuge replies. "We know it's someone League-related now. The women can be a huge help, if they want to lend a hand, and they tend to not exactly love the League, so I don't think we have to worry about it leaking out."

"Plus Wicks will probably kill us for not telling her the first time," Hallsy adds. "She's an Oiler, pretty much. This is gonna be kind of ugly. We might have to Nose Goes for who calls."

"I'll do it," Nuge says, staring at his phone like it's going to catch on fire. "Nice knowing you all."

Davo leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. "I love you, and your sacrifice won't be forgotten," he says seriously. He waits a beat, then shoves Nuge off the chair. "Go call."

Nuge splutters as he hits the ground, and it makes everyone laugh. Davo's good at this, Jo realises all over again.

He's really glad that these are the people he's working with.


	24. June: Ryan

Ryan paces a little as the phone rings. The meeting is still going on behind him; there's always going to be more to discuss, Ryan thinks, right up until they start their fight. Probably even then, but hopefully enough of it will be ironed out that they can make up the rest as they go along.

"Hello?" comes through the phone, and Ryan jumps a little.

He clears his throat. "Uh, hi. Is this—this is Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, from the Oilers. Is this Hayley Wickenheiser?"

"Ryan, hi," she replies, sounding surprised. "Yeah, this is Hayley. To what do I owe the call?"

"Uh, well, please don't kill the messenger," he says weakly. There's really no way to make the long story actually short, so he starts from the beginning; he's gotten used to telling it, to condensing down all the anguish into fleeting sentences, but it still takes him almost fifteen full minutes to sum everything up.

"Well," Wicks says when he finishes. There's nothing after that, nothing judging or condemning, but nothing helpful, either. "That's… one hell of a story, Ryan."

"You can call Mark Messier for confirmation," he says. "Or, like. Crosby, or—Ovi's here, if you want to talk to him."

"Gods, no," Wicks says, laughing a little. "It's just… why are you telling me this? Why now?"

Ryan feels a little heat rise to his cheeks. "Um," he says. "We're trying to get all the help we can get, and I realised that we never reached out to you. To any of the women, actually."

Wicks snorts. "I'm gonna hold back the first thing that popped into my head, kid," she says. "So you're calling me to see if I can get some of the women to help you?"

"Or, no, I can do it," Ryan says immediately. "I can make phone calls, if you're willing to make introductions."

"Don't worry about it," she says lightly. "I know a few people who'll be interested in helping. Fair warning, though, that almost all of them are gonna want to tear your group a collective new one for leaving them out until now."

"That's fair," Ryan says. "We deserve it for not thinking about calling until now."

"You do," she says evenly. "I'll call around and have people call you if they want to help out. You're thinking mid-July?"

"Yeah," Ryan says. "We're gonna pick a day while we're all here together. We want to wait until after the draft and free agency, just in case something happens and one of us needs to be available for media, but we don't want to wait too long."

"Solid thinking," Wicks replies. "Let me know when you figure it out."

"Will do," Ryan says. "Thanks. And sorry again."

Wicks sighs. "If I got pissed off enough to yell every time men forgot that women exist, I'd have no voice left," she says. "Just… do better, okay? All of you."

"I'll do my best," Ryan promises.

Wicks lets him go without further admonishment, but Ryan's not fooling himself. He's already picturing several of the women he knows who are going to absolutely light him up. He really does need to do a better job in the future.

Jordan claps when Ryan walks back into the backyard. "He lives!"

"For now," Ryan says, slipping back into his seat beside Connor. "She's gonna call around, have people call me if they can help." He looks around. "She asked me for a date."

"Funny you should mention that," Hanny says, giving him a crooked smile. "One-month countdown is officially on. July 11th. It's a Tuesday."

Ryan nods and texts Wicks. "We're clear then?"

"As clear as we're getting," Landy says. "The circus is there through the 9th, and there's a show on the 14th. It gives us a little time, just in case we're there a while."

"We may be, or we may not be," Backy adds. "Time doesn't always work how you think it will outside this dimension."

"And just because it wasn't weird last time doesn't mean it won't be this time," Connor finishes. "So: the 11th."

"Works for me," Ryan says, adding it to his calendar. "Should I do a group invite, or…"

Skinner laughs a little hysterically. "Calendar Man," he whispers to Hanny, who rolls his eyes but grins.

"Yeah, invite the group," Landy says. "You can be in charge of inviting whoever's in Wicks' posse, too."

"Sure," Ryan says. "By the way, is it fair if I redirect Taylor Crosby to Sid? I feel like I'm gonna get a call from her, and given the amount of other calls I'm gonna get…"

"Send Amanda Kessel to Sid, too," Hallsy says. "Delegate, man. If Crosby can't win a Cup while also telling his sister and Best Kessel about all of this, well, maybe Nashville deserves it."

"Hear, hear," Nate says. "I, uh. I can actually probably talk to Taylor and Mandy." He winces a little. "We actually talked to Taylor, like, right before we moved. She came over to help us pack up a bunch of stuff that was at my mom's place."

Jo snickers. "She's gonna kill you twice," he says, patting Nate's leg. "Good thing she likes me better."

"She does not!" Nate says indignantly. "She told me I'm her favorite little brother!"

"She's half a year younger than you are," Landy points out, grinning. "I don't think that's as much of a compliment as you think it is."

"Invite her up to the house when we get back," Jo says. "I'll get beer. It'll be great."

"Maybe you can invite Mandy then, too," Gabe says, looking at his phone as it buzzes. Suddenly, there's a cacophony of noise in the yard, and everyone looks at their phones.

Skinner starts laughing. "Hey, guys, did you know Game Six is about to start?"

"C'mon, basement," Marns says, standing up. "Stanley Cup party."

"Hockey party!" Taylor yells enthusiastically. He helps Ebs up, then holds his hand out and pulls Dorito out of the ether. "Dorito, my bud, it's time to watch some hockey."

Dorito lets out a little puff of smoke and climbs his way up Taylor's shirt, perching on his shoulder and looking around.

"I'm sitting next to Hallsy," Stromer says instantly. "I wanna pet the dragon."

"He's gonna get curious and try to climb off my shoulder and disappear a lot," Taylor warns as they head inside. "He's super cute, but like, that's about it."

"I'll deal," Stromer says confidently. "It's pretty much a rule that I have to make friends with Dorito the baby dragon."

Ryan smiles and follows them inside.

-0-

The Penguins win the Cup, Ryan finally flies back home to British Columbia, and Jo gets traded to the Habs in a matter of days. It feels weird to reach out, but weirder not to; Ryan settles for texting, gets back an entire screen full of emojis, and manages to deduce that this is one of those rare cases in which the person being traded is actually thrilled about it. It's nice, Ryan thinks. That doesn't actually happen that often.

Connor calls nightly, updating him on daily life in the GTA (which Ryan teases him about) and the conversations he's managed to have with Crosby in and among Cup-related shenanigans (which he doesn't). Both are going well, according to Connor; he's a little concerned that Connor might be fudging the truth on that front, but he's not gonna call him out. There's every reason to believe Connor might need to tell him it's going well to convince himself of the same thing.

Mostly, though, Ryan's fielding calls from rightfully pissed-off women's hockey players. He endures them with as much grace as he can manage, tries to apologise, and ends up convincing about half of them to be in Denver on July 11th. Nate does actually talk to Taylor Crosby and Amanda Kessel, and Jo sends their group chat an incredibly entertaining video of them making him dress in goalie gear and take shots from both of them as penance. In all, they're going to be joined by eight women, and Ryan can't help but breathe a little easier for having the backup.

The backup he really needs, though, has been a little harder to contact. Ryan had called Aly pretty much as soon as he landed in BC, but her voicemail had cheerily informed him that she's on vacation with her wife "for a while," and Ryan honestly doesn't know if that means until the end of the week, the month, or the summer. He'd left her a message the first day and resolved not to call every day thereafter, but when he hasn't heard from her by the 20th, he figures he should try again. If Aly's not going to be available, then they need to figure out a plan B for Gretzky, and Ryan's gonna need a few days to psych himself up to calling Messier if that happens.

"Ryan, hey," Aly says when he calls.

"Oh, thank the gods," Ryan says, slumping back against his sofa. "Hey, Aly. How was vacation?"

"Great, thanks," she says. "We got back last night, but I was too wiped to call you back. What's going on?"

Ryan blows out a breath. "We were hoping you could help us with the situation in Denver," 

"Possibly," Aly replies. "What's going on?"

"It's a long story, and I'll tell you the whole thing if you want," Ryan says. "But the part we need you for… uh. Are you sitting down? It sounds a little… out there."

Aly laughs, loud and kind. "Something having to do with a demon is _out there_ ," she teases. "Does this involve your friends with the brain-link, or it not quite out that far?"

Ryan smiles almost involuntarily. "Nah, but you can meet them, if you want. They'll be there."

"Awesome," Aly says. "What do you need?"

"A Gretzky-sitter," Ryan says. "Part of the plan is to summon the hockey gods, and part of doing _that_ involves bringing Gretzky with us."

There's dead silence from the other end of the line. Just as Ryan's about to check to see if the call dropped, Aly speaks. "I'm gonna need you to repeat that."

"I told you it was out there," Ryan says. "We're kind of out of other ideas, and we're all pretty sure it's going to work."

"So you're going to trust that Gretzky can pull it off?" Aly asks, voice incredulous. "Ryan, you were there when we talked to Messier, and you were there after, when we talked about how—"

"I know," Ryan breaks in. "Connor's going. Crosby, too. We figured, y'know, the past, the present, the future…"

"Oh," Aly says. "That's… that makes sense."

"I don't like it either," Ryan says, staring at his ceiling. "It's a lot of risk."

"It is," Aly agrees. "How do we even get him there?"

"I don't know," Ryan admits. "I was hoping you had an idea."

"Nothing that doesn't involve making it attention-seeking," Aly says, sighing. "I think we need Messier. It'll be easier to handle Gretzky if someone he knows is there, even if it's just for travel."

Ryan shifts on the sofa, thinking. "Wait, maybe not," he says. "Wicks is coming. Hayley Wickenheiser. They know each other, right?"

"Wait, Wicks is involved in this?" Aly says. "That actually makes me feel a little better. Uh, no offense."

"None taken," Ryan says, smiling a little. "But do you think she could help get him down there? We've already got her pencilled in for helping us with some of the breaking stuff during the actual thing, but it's possible she could fly him down."

"It's very possible," Aly agrees. "I'm willing to come with you and help wrangle him, but we're going to need a better plan for him than 'bring him and hope.'"

"Trust me, I know," Ryan says. "I think the current idea is that everyone gets their own breaking point? So maybe when his part is done, you could just… take him out."

Aly hums a little. "Maybe," she says. "Tell you what: I'm gonna call Wicks, and then I'll let you know what we get coordinated."

"That sounds great," Ryan says, relieved. "I'll keep you in the loop on my end, too. I don't think much is going to change at this point, but just in case."

"Okay," Aly says. "Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you kill it really, really dead," she says firmly. "I would really love to be done with demon bullshit after this."

It makes Ryan smile, big and genuine. "That's the plan," he promises.


	25. June: Dylan

Dylan is actually really sure that he can break whatever Puck has laid out in his little hell dimension. It's not that he'd ever actually broken a spell before, but he's read theory— _so much_ theory—and he's got his link to Mitch's brain. It kind of stands to reason that if Mitch can do it, then Dylan can watch and learn.

They're on a plane, though, which means right now he's paying attention to Mitch as he talks about break points, as he moves his hands around to try to illustrate what he means. They can't actually practice while they're in the air, but between watching what Mitch is trying to demonstrate and listening to him think it through, it's pretty useful anyway.

"I think I get it," Dylan says when Mitch winds down. "This is the easy kind of breaking, that's what you're telling me."

"More or less," Mitch says. "I mean, it's going to be hard because it's incredibly strong magic, but we're not trying to salvage the original spell, so pretty much it's the brute force method."

"Find the break point, push magic into it, blow things up," Dylan says. "I think I can handle that."

"I sure fucking hope so," Mitch mutters.

Dylan rolls his eyes a little, then jerks to the side so he can avoid the elbow Mitch throws his way. "It's why we're going to practice," he reminds Mitch. "So you can tell me if I'm doing it wrong."

"That's not the only reason," Mitch says, glancing across the aisle. Crosby looks like he's sleeping, but Dylan would absolutely not put it past him to just be faking it really, really well so he doesn't have to deal with anyone else on the plane.

Dylan and Mitch are heading to Denver so they can check out what's going on; neither of them has actually seen the binding mark in person, and while Dylan's not especially fond of the idea of poking it with a stick when Puck might recognize them, he knows it's pretty important to do it anyway. Crosby, on the other hand, is making a pit stop in Denver on his way to the NHL Awards-slash-expansion draft so he can check out the magical signature that everyone knows but nobody _knows_.

"Is anyone else coming?" Dylan asks quietly. He's not staring at Crosby; he's just watching to make sure he doesn't do anything that would give up the sleeping act.

Mitch snorts a little. "Quit that," he says, nudging Dylan's knee with his own. "I'm not sure. Hanny said that he and Skinner were out. I'm guessing some of the Avs guys will be there. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine."

Dylan looks at him and raises an eyebrow. "Only _as_ good?"

"Ovi and Backy will be there," Crosby says from across the aisle. Mitch jumps and whirls, and Dylan lets himself feel as smug as he wants, pushing it through to Mitch. Crosby hasn't opened his eyes or given any other indication that he's awake. "I think that's it."

"Dude," Dylan says, laughing a little. "Please tell me you pull that on your rookies."

"I still pull it on Tanger," Crosby says, finally opening his eyes. He turns and grins at them. "The trick is that I'm almost always actually asleep."

"Nice," Mitch says. "So, other than hopefully having a lightbulb moment when you see the magical signature, anything you're aiming to do before you leave?"

"There's not much else I _can_ do at this point," Crosby says, shrugging a little. "I thought about laying some groundwork for the spells we're gonna have to do, but with the number of people who'll be through there between now and when we're going in…" He shrugs. "Honestly, I think figuring it out will be good enough for one day."

"I'm just hoping you can," Dylan says, flexing his fingers. The thread of Mitch's magic around his wrist pulses comfortingly, and Dylan pushes back a bubble of fondness without really thinking about it.

"You and me both," Crosby mutters. "Honestly, that's part of why I asked Ovi and Backy along. Even if I can't pin it down…"

"They might be able to," Dylan finishes. "Makes sense."

Crosby nods. "I don't think we have enough time to do anything about whoever it was before we deal with the situation," he says. "But if we don't figure it out before, we might not be able to after."

"Right," Mitch says. "One thing at a time, eh? We can handle the who after we handle the what, as long as we don't do the what until after we figure out the who."

"Uh," Crosby says, looking at Dylan. "You catch that?"

"Yeah," Dylan says, smiling a little. "We're good. We're doing all this the right way."

Crosby looks back at Mitch and raises an eyebrow. "That was a lot less words."

"I gotta be me, though," Mitch says, blinking innocently. "Everybody else was taken."

Dylan laughs both at the comment and at the expression on Crosby's face, like he's not sure if he should be laughing or trying to convince Mitch to have better self-worth.

It's a pretty good flight, all told.

-0-

The Pepsi Center in the summer is… weird, Dylan thinks. Mitch shoves a thought at him: a half-faded memory of being in a theatre of some kind, nobody else around, dust floating hazily through the air, and that's exactly the feeling. There should always be people in or around a place like this, he thinks, and when there aren't, everything's… wrong.

"Everything's wrong anyway," Mitch mutters as they head for the trainers' room, where Landy had suggested they meet. The entire Avs contingent of their group is there; Dylan knows for a fact that none of them are from anywhere around Denver, but he doesn't really blame them for sticking close. "Can't you feel it?"

"Yeah," Dylan says, quiet as they walk. "It's definitely here."

"Great," Landy says, appearing out of nowhere. Dylan startles a little, and he hears someone stifle a laugh.

"That's not nice, Gabriel," Backy says, leaning out of the trainers' room. "And they're here to help, too."

"Sorry," Landy says immediately, and he actually sounds like he means it, even if he's still grinning at them like normal. Dylan's eyes flick to Backy and then to Landy, and he decides that he really doesn't want the details. "Come in, grab a drink. We're all here."

"Fun times," Mitch says, walking into the room.

Dylan follows; they are indeed the last ones there. Ovi and Picks are talking on the bench while Crosby and Nate talk something over that involves a lot of hand gestures on Nate's part and nodding on Crosby's. Dylan reaches for Mitch's hand and breathes a little easier when he finds it.

"So I set a tracking spell up," Landy says. "Last time we had people here, I mean. Ebs suggested I do something to make a record if anyone came by to check on the demon."

"And?" Crosby asks when Landy doesn't go on.

"Nothing," Landy answers, shrugging. "Whoever set it up here either isn't concerned about people fucking around with it, or thinks that their setup is so secure that it couldn't possibly be fucked with."

"Great," Mitch mutters. "So we've either got someone who's just plain evil, or someone who's evil _and_ super full of themselves. That's awesome news."

"Could be worse," Dylan says.

" _How_?" Nate asks, looking at him.

Dylan shrugs a little. "They could have figured out the tracking spell was here, disabled it, and checked on Puck. We'd know that someone fucked with it but not who, and they'd know we knew about everything."

Ovi whistles. "Look at Mr. Worst Case," he says, smiling a little. "Good job, little Coyote. That is very worse."

"I try," Dylan says, turning his nose up a little bit. He can feel Mitch's amusement all around him, and even here, where he can feel the thing that's probably going to try to kill them all in a few weeks, he relaxes into it.

"Are we ready?" Backy asks mildly "Sid, you have a plane to catch this evening, so we should probably check out the spellwork soon."

"Yeah, good point," Crosby says, standing up. "Let's get to this."

They walk quietly down the tunnel to the arena floor. It's Picks who leads them through the maze of chairs to where centre ice should be; apparently there's a concert soon, or there recently was one. He stops in the middle of one of the aisles and looks back at them. "Everybody ready?"

"Ready," Mitch answers for everyone.

"Have a look," Picks says, gesturing in the air. It's quick, nothing Dylan can actually focus on, but it breaks the concealment charm hiding the binding mark from view.

"Aw, fuck," Mitch says, voice bouncing strangely around the empty arena. "I knew we were right, but I was really hoping we weren't right."

"You were right," Backy agrees, staring at centre ice. "That's the Edmonton demon."

Dylan takes a small step forward, squinting at the bit of magic that's holding Crosby's focus. It does seem familiar, but only in the way that some of the Yotes' management seems familiar: he's met them a handful of times, but not enough for them to leave a solid impression on him.

Crosby, on the other hand, runs it through his fingers, looking like he's seen a ghost. "I'm wrong," he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Dylan to hear him. "There's no way."

Dylan feels Mitch notice and walk over. "Dyls?" he asks quietly.

"I don't know," Dylan replies. Louder, he asks, "You okay over there?"

"Alex," Crosby says, and Ovi jerks like he's been hit hard from behind. "Look at this. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Sid," Ovi says, eyes a little wide. It's odd, a distant part of Dylan's mind notes, to see Ovechkin actually show any sort of true nervousness. It's rolling off of him in spades right now, though. "You know it?"

"I have to be wrong," Crosby says, sounding strained. He looks away from the magic, let it slip out of his fingers, and takes a step back. He flings his hand towards it. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Ovi mutters something under his breath and Backy nods. Then he takes a few cautious steps towards the magic, reaching out to brush his fingers through it.

The effect is instantaneous; his eyes go almost comically wide and he shudders, stumbling away from the magic. It continues swirling serenely around in the air, but Ovi's staring at Crosby, shaking his head minutely.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Crosby says again, and there's something not quite pleading in his voice.

"You not wrong," Ovi says heavily. "Shit. Sid, _shit_."

"I hate to ask," Nate says, voice hesitant. But, uh, clearly you guys know who it is."

Backy's been looking back and forth between Crosby and Ovi since Ovi stepped away from hi, but he suddenly draws in a sharp breath. Dylan turns to look at him, but he's now focusing on the swirl of magic.

"Bettman," he says. "It was Bettman."


	26. June: Jeff

Jeff wakes up to his phone ringing and a terrible, gut-wrenching truth in his mind.

"Hello?" he gasps into his phone, forcing himself to sit up. He's got no idea who it is; he reached for it more as a way to pull him to alertness, a way to make sure he's awake and actually knows what he knows.

"Hey, Skinny, it's Gabe," comes the reply. "Are you okay?"

"I fell asleep," Jeff blurts out. "I was napping. Gabe, I know who it is. I know who set Puck loose."

"Yeah," Gabe says heavily. "I was just calling to let you know that we know, too."

"Was it really," Jeff begins. He's never been wrong, and the clawing, swooping sensation in his stomach right now isn't making him feel like he is now, either.

"Bettman," Gabe finishes, almost too softly for Jeff to hear. "It was Bettman."

"Damn it," Jeff says, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "I guess it's a good thing we didn't go running to him when we found out in the first place.

Gabe laughs humorlessly. "Yeah, Stromer said the same thing."

"What now?" Jeff asks. He's got a million questions, but they all come back to that one.

"Now we all take a deep breath and don't do anything for a few days," Gabe says. "Every single eye in the League is on the Awards and the expansion draft right now. We wait until all of that bullshit is over, until people stop looking again, and then we figure out what move to make."

"Yeah," Jeff says, sighing. "That's pretty reasonable, Gabe. Not your plan, eh?"

Gabe laughs, a little mocking. "Backstrom's."

"Ah," Jeff says. They don't really talk about it; Jeff understands enough of it to know that Backstrom is in charge of all of the fae in the League, and that he's at least somewhat responsible for Gabe being allowed to play. He's never asked for the details, mostly because it seemed rude, but also because part of him is always hyper-aware that Gabe isn't human, and he might be offending Gabe on a level he isn't even aware exists if he does ask. He's not afraid, but he doesn't want to alienate his friend.

"It's a good plan, though," Gabe says after a moment of quiet. "It is, and I know it is, but I want to just—"

"Which is why Backstrom gave you the stand-down signal," Jeff says gently. "Do we know why?"

Gabe sighs. "No."

Jeff hums a little. "Do we have a way to figure that out?"

"My idea was shot down with prejudice," Gabe says darkly.

"That's a no," Jeff says. The best way to handle Gabe when he's like this, when he's less human than his heritage actually accounts for, is to roll with it. Jeff's had a lot of practice.

"That's a no," Gabe confirms. "The best idea we've come up with is to point-blank ask him."

"I mean, it's not the worst idea," Jeff says, shrugging a little. "We could probably figure it out."

"None of us can, like, magically make him tell the truth," Gabe says, sighing.

"No," Jeff says slowly, thinking fast. "But there are people who can tell if he's lying."

"There are?" Gabe asks. Jeff can practically hear him perking up. "Who?"

"One of Noah's friends," Jeff says, narrowing his eyes. "It's either Crouse or Konecny, but I can't remember which. He never talks about one without talking about the other."

"Good," Gabs says. "That's good. That's great, in fact. Can we get them to…"

"I'll put the word out," Jeff says when Gabe trails off. "We can figure the details out later. Right now, let's just see if they're available."

"Right," Gabe says. "I wish we could figure out how to make you wake up knowing why."

"Well, we can rule some things out now," Jeff says, stretching a little. "Like, it's not a rival team, so it's not a revenge thing."

Gabe hums a little. "It's Bettman, so the reason is probably really simple and super business-related."

"Point," Jeff acknowledges. "But what possible benefit could he get out of you having a historically bad season?"

"Fuck if I know," Gabe says, sounding so grumpy that Jeff has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. "Maybe it's just a power trip. That seems like something he'd do."

"He is kind of like that," Jeff agrees. "I don't know, man. He could've done plenty of stuff to make you guys suck without going to these lengths. He had to have a _reason_."

"Maybe he's a demon," Gabe suggests, and this time, Jeff does laugh. He's not sure who started the rumor or when, but the "Bettman is secretly part demon" rumor was going around the OHL for years before Jeff and Gabe were in Kitchener. He wouldn't be shocked to hear it was still running strong.

"Maybe," Jeff says, still smiling. "I guess there's no time like the present to lay that rumor to rest one way or the other, eh?"

"As long as we're allowed to make him pay for it either way," Gabe says. His voice is heavy again; Jeff has seen him more pissed off, but only once, and there are reasons he's learned how to handle Gabe's moods since they were kids. Once was more than enough.

"We'll make sure he doesn't get away," Jeff says firmly. "Hallsy and Ebs were working on some sort of failsafe, remember? I'm sure they won't leave out the part where it was Bettman the whole time."

Gabe sighs. "You're not gonna let me at him, are you?"

"No," Jeff says simply. He's got memories enough that he can't erase. "Am I the one you'd even have to ask?"

"Why do you keep reminding me?" Gabe whines, and Jeff starts laughing again.

-0-

The expansion draft is great if you're Vegas and shitty if you're anyone else in the League. Trades happen and it's not a surprise, but it still sucks to watch people being torn away from teams who, for the most part, would desperately love to keep them. Picks sends their group chat a very calm thumbs-up when his name is called. Jeff can't even imagine being in his shoes, but he seems to be rolling with it pretty well so Jeff doesn't push.

The bigger shock is the notification on his phone the day after that Ebs was traded. Jeff's first instinct is to reach out, but he hesitates; everyone probably is right now, and Jeff knows if it was him in Ebs' shoes, he probably wouldn't care that some guy he hardly knows sent him a _that sucks, buddy_. It had been one thing when it was Jo, happy to be going somewhere that felt like home, or Picks, who saw it coming. It's different, and Jeff finally just sends him a thumbs-down emoji and calls it a day.

He's got other things he really needs to be focusing on, anyway. Noah had laughed for a solid minute when Jeff asked him if it was Crouse or Konecny who could tell if someone is lying; he'd sobered up when Jeff finally told him why. As it turns out, neither of them can actually do it, per se. Konecny has the ability to make certain things he says come true, and Crouse can focus spellwork to make it more effective. Apparently they've teamed up in the past and figured out a way for Crouse to focus Konency's ability, though, and have used it for all sorts of things.

"So they can actually make him tell the truth," Jeff says, a little stunned.

"Probably," Noah says, shrugging. The Skype video is lagging a little behind the sound, so by the time Jeff sees him shrug, he's already speaking again. "You'd have to ask them."

"Send me their info?" Jeff says. "Or, like, whichever one of them is more likely to be able to answer my questions, I guess."

"How about I have them call you together?" Noah suggests. "You'll need both of them, so it makes sense to just _talk_ to both of them."

"Sure, yeah," Jeff agrees. "I don't have anything going this week or the beginning of next, so just have them text me first or whatever so I know who it is."

Noah laughs a little. "Still not answering calls from numbers you don't know?"

"If it's important, they'll leave a message," Jeff says stubbornly. "And if it's not, then I don't want to talk to them."

"Sure, yeah," Noah says, still smiling. "I'll have them get in touch."

"Thanks," Jeff says, smiling back, and from there their conversation moves to summer training plans.

It takes a couple of days for the text to come it; in true friend-of-Noah's fashion, it's a long _heyyyyy man_ followed by _this is crouser btw_. Jeff sometimes feels like he's part of the very small generation of people who text like humans; older teammates rely on the hunt-and-peck method, and everyone drafted after 2014 has an aversion to capital letters and most punctuation. It makes Jeff feel like he's yelling at kids to get off his lawn, but phones have autocorrect now to prevent this stuff, so mostly he's just baffled.

_I'm around whenever you want to call _, he sends back.__

__His phone rings about ten minutes later. "Hey," Jeff says as he answers. "This is Skinner."_ _

__"Hey," the caller replies. "You're on speaker. I'm Lawson Crouse, and—"_ _

__"Travis Konecny," another voice supplies. "We heard you had something you needed our brand of help with?"_ _

__Jeff laughs a little. "You make it sound like a mob hit."_ _

__"Well, TK's a Flyer, so…" Crouse says. There's a sound like someone getting hit with something soft, and Crouse laughs. "What's going on?"_ _

__Jeff sums it up as quickly as he can; they already know bits and pieces, just from being friends with some of the guys involved, so there are fewer questions than Jeff was anticipating. When he finishes, there's a pause on the other end of the line. Jeff doesn't really want to break it, but he only has so much patience. After a moment, he clears his throat. "Well?"_ _

__"I think we can do it," Konecny says. "We'll have to practice, because that's not a thing we've done before, but…"_ _

__"We can," Crouse says, full of confidence. "Definite yes to the practice, though."_ _

__"We'll get in touch with Marns," Konecny goes on. "He can be target practice, him and Stromer."_ _

__"You are not allowed to ask them about their sex lives," Crouse says immediately. "I don't want to know. I don't want you to know, either."_ _

__Konecny laughs. "I'll keep it PG," he promises. "Skinner, when's the big day?"_ _

__"July 11," Jeff replies. "You have, like, two and a half weeks. Is that gonna be enough time?"_ _

__"Sure," Konecny says easily. "We'll be ready by July 11th."_ _

__There's a weird weight to it, and it takes a second for it to sink in: that's Konecny's ability at work. They will absolutely be ready by the 11th, and Jeff knows it with as much certainty as if he'd woken up with the knowledge. It makes him feel a lot better, and he's sure they can tell by the way Jeff sighs._ _

__"Thanks," he says. "We're probably all flying down a day or two early, so…"_ _

__"We can call you back to figure out details, or we can just keep in touch with Marns," Crouse replies. "Whatever's easier."_ _

__"I'll just add you to the group chat," Jeff says. "And the email list."_ _

__Crouse laughs. "You guys are so organised."_ _

__"We've had to be," Jeff says simply. There's no need to get into the minutiae, not here and now. He has the feeling they get it well enough anyway._ _

__And if they don't yet, well. They will soon._ _


	27. June: Mitch

If you were to ask Mitch what his biggest secret was, his answer would change depending on a lot of factors. Being ace is right up there; it's not an easy thing to admit to when you're constantly surrounded by guys in a locker room who seem almost obsessed with sex. The disgustingly sappy dreams he and Dylan have together, the ones where they can do anything or go anywhere but mostly choose to curl up together, he keeps to himself more because they're intimate than anything else. They're both things he shares with Dylan, though, and he likes to think he still would even if they weren't brain-bonded or whatever. They really need to come up with a word for it, but they've had other things on their minds.

His biggest secret right now, though, is one that he carefully tucks away when Dylan's paying attention: he doesn't think they're ready for this.

"Hey," Dylan says. It's nearing the end of June, and Mitch isn't exactly counting down the days, but he's very, very aware of how much time they don't have. "Can we talk?"

"Yeah, of course," Mitch says, patting the sofa beside where he's sitting. The brain thing does come in handy a lot; that might have put him on edge, except he can tell Dylan's concerned about something, but it's not anything major. He doesn't even know how one of them would go about dumping the other one, so he's glad that it's not on either of their minds.

Dylan sits next to him and holds his hand out, and Mitch doesn't hesitate to reach out and link their fingers together. He's flooded with Dylan's warmth and his worry in equal measure, and he squeezes Dylan's hand out of reflex. "Hey," Mitch says gently. "What's going on?"

"You're worried about something, and I can't figure out what it is," Dylan says plainly. "I mean, it's not like you have to tell me just because we're together, or because we share brain space, but I wanted to just…" He shrugs a little, faint color appearing on his cheeks. "You can talk to me, you know?"

"Dyls," Mitch says, leaning against him. Dylan lets go of Mitch's hand so he can wrap his arm around Mitch's shoulders, then reaches over with his other hand to take Mitch's hand again. It's sweet, but a lot of things about Dylan are. "I love you."

"I know," Dylan says. "Love you too. And you can tell me to fuck off, okay, and I'll stop pushing."

Mitch sighs and cuddles in, and Dylan lets him stay quiet while he thinks. It's not that he doesn't trust Dylan, or that he thinks he'll handle it badly. It's more than Mitch doesn't want to make it seem like he doubts Dylan's ability to serve as a substitute breaker; Dylan's bound and determined to do it, and even with the addition of all the women's hockey players who are joining them, there aren't enough breakers to let Dylan off the hook. It's not even a Dylan-specific thing he's worried about, if he's being completely honest with himself; Dylan's good, and they're both better together.

"It's just," Mitch finally says. "This is all… a lot."

Dylan squeezes his hand. "It's been a lot for a while," he says quietly. "Is it just hitting you, or is there more to it?"

"What if one of us gets hurt?" Mitch blurts out. He hadn't really been aware that he was going to say it, but he's not going to take it back or anything. "Or worse?"

Now it's Dylan's turn to be quiet for a little while. "I can't say nobody will," he says after a moment. "You know I can't promise that, Mitch."

"I know," Mitch says. "I'm not asking you to."

"But I can promise that everyone there is going to try their best to make sure it doesn't happen," Dylan goes on. "We all know what we're getting into. Danger's a big part of it, but we're prepared for it."

"What if it's you?" Mitch asks softly, closing his eyes. "What if we do this, and it's _you_ who gets hurt?"

"It broke your leg last time," Dylan says, equally soft. "It's a risk, sweetheart. It's one I'm gonna take, though, and we'll deal with the fallout together."

Mitch shudders a little. It's not that he's had dreams of anyone dying; he doesn't dream without Dylan anymore, and all of their dreams are about the future they'll have one day: a house with a couple of guest rooms, a big dog who loves sprinklers and a little cat who likes curling up in sun patches, a kitchen that neither of them has a clue how to use but looks nice and homey. There's still something that lurks in the back of his mind, dark and dripping, that keeps whispering _what if_ at the least opportune moments, though.

"Together, Mitch," Dylan says, and that's a promise that Mitch can and will cling to. He brings their joined hands up to his mouth and brushes a kiss against Dylan's knuckles, finally opening his eyes. He looks up at Dylan and thinks about their combined magic, then takes a deep breath and lets down the walls he's been building around all the bad feelings.

Dylan tenses under him, then sighs and relaxes, soft and sad. "Talk to me," he murmurs, brushing a kiss against Mitch's temple. "Please don't carry all this around on your own."

"I'm working on it," Mitch promises. He's used to hiding bits and pieces of himself away; letting Dylan in had been difficult, but incredibly, amazingly worth it. He's unlearning a lot of stuff now that Dylan's there to help him through it.

There's a rush of feelings from Dylan; most of it is what Mitch both expects and loves to feel, a combination of fondness and love and steadiness that he's come to associate with _home_. There's something else in there, too, something that Mitch recognises as Dylan thinking something through, rolling an idea around in his head until the edges smooth out. Mitch thinks about question marks, and Dylan smiles at him, a little rueful.

"Don't laugh," he says aloud, squeezing Mitch's hand. "Remember when we were just figuring out… everything?"

"Yeah," Mitch says. He remembers it in too-bright detail sometimes, the way it had felt to turn Dylan down because he thought he was saving them both the heartache, the way it had just gotten worse and worse, the way he'd known the second they dreamed together on Cavendish Beach the first time, the lurching in his stomach as he looked at what falling in love would be like and leapt off the cliff anyway. He doesn't regret it, exactly, because it's made them who they are, but he knows he made it harder than it had to be.

"Do you remember," Dylan says softly. He's tracing Mitch's wrist with his thumb, a comforting back-and-forth sweep. "We talked about how magic is, like, part of you. Part of your soul."

"Yeah," Mitch repeats. He reaches up and hooks his fingers in the thread of his magic around Dylan's wrist, and Dylan does the same, sliding his thumb beneath his own magic on Mitch's wrist.

"What if," Dylan says, and Mitch can feel the emotions rolling off of him like the tide, hope and embarrassment and fear and love. "What if we called it soulbonding?"

"Soulbonding," Mitch repeats, testing the word out. It sounds a little silly, but the whole thing is legitimately out of a fairy tale, so Mitch supposes it deserves that sort of name. "We're soulbonded."

"I just like the idea of it," Dylan says. "We don't have to if—"

Mitch smiles and shakes his head. "It's good," he says, turning his face towards Dylan's. It's an awkward angle, but they make it work, lips brushing against each other's once, twice. "Soulmates."

"Soulmates," Dylan agrees, and he's filled with something that's beyond happiness, beyond joy. It's exhilarating, and Mitch lets himself feel it and echo it back, and the worry he's been feeling has nowhere to take hold in the face of all that love.


	28. July: Puck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THE UPDATED TAGS. they serve as your warning for this final section. proceed with that in mind, and if you need specific spoilers, [message me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com) and i'll let you know what's going on. take care of yourselves <3 <3

The end is coming.

There are many ends, and many ways for things to end; Puck has brought about more than its own share of endings, but such is the way of demonkind. It's more rare by far to be the one waiting for the end, unsure of its timing, but Puck is not so unfamiliar with endings as to be _afraid._

Fear is useless, unhelpful, weak. Human.

Besides, Puck thinks, it is not as if there are no ways in which to prepare. There are things that can be done, precautions to be taken. There is an ending coming; Puck can do nothing to prevent it, to slow it, to predict it, but there is nothing saying that the end must be _Puck's._

In fact, Puck thinks idly, history says that it is far, far more likely to be the opposite.


	29. July: Jordan

The trade both is and isn't a shock; by the time all the dust settles, though, Jordan has memorized all the turns he'll have to take to get from the apartment he and Taylor will be sharing in Hoboken to the Barclays Center, and he's carrying around a sense of relief that he doesn't quite know how to handle. He's not the only one, either; Taylor keeps shooting him glances, half-thrilled and half-heartbroken, like he's happy but isn't sure he's allowed to be. Jordan has told him that they're good, that it's fine, that he's excited to be with Taylor again, but he knows that it's not going to seem real to either one of them until the season starts.

It's fine. They're getting there. Jordan thinks they're a lot closer to actually being good than they have been in a long, long time.

"I think I've got it," Taylor says, pulling Jordan from his thoughts. They're at his mom's house; she told them to use the yard for practice, since Taylor's trying for bigger and bigger things. He's got a look of pure concentration on his face, the kind that comes before some kind of crazy pass that leaves the TV guys screaming into their mics. He takes a deep breath and raises his hand from his side, and suddenly he's holding a seven-foot sword.

It's on fire.

"Whoa," Jordan says, taking a step back as Taylor swings it experimentally. "Don't set me on fire, dude."

"I won't," Taylor says. He leans forward and stabs the sword at the air, then shoots Jordan a wild grin. "This is the coolest thing, though."

Jordan laughs. "How are you even managing to move it?"

Taylor shrugs. "It's actually super light," he says. "It's not like it's a real sword, so it's made out of, like, aluminum foil, except super strong."

"Useful," Jordan says. "Please tell me you're just planning to wave it around and not try to actually stab anyone with it."

"I'm keeping my options open," Taylor sniffs. "I might see if my magic sword can set Puck on fire. I feel like that would make me feel a lot better."

"It might," Jordan acknowledges. "But it also might, like, really piss Puck off without doing any damage, and I'd like you back in one piece, thanks."

"Fine," Taylor says, drawing it out. He lets go of the sword and it vanishes back into the ether, not a trace of smoke left behind. Before Jordan can blink, Dorito pops into existence on Taylor's shoulder.

"Hi, buddy," Jordan coos, stepping towards Taylor and holding his fingers out. Dorito jumps for his hand, popping out of existence as soon as he stops touching Taylor, and Jordan hurries to Taylor's side before Taylor calls Dorito back. It's a little mean, Jordan thinks, even if they're both laughing about it.

"You think we're ready?" Taylor asks as Jordan scritches under Dorito's chin.

"I think we're gonna have to be," Jordan replies. "I don't know what else we can do, to be honest with you."

"I mean," Taylor says. Before he can complete that thought, though, both of their phones start buzzing, app alert notifications and text message noises blurring together and overlapping.

They stare at each other for a moment. "I'll look," Jordan volunteers, heading for the porch. Their phones are on one of the deck chairs, and Jordan grabs his and stares at his lock screen for a moment.

"Ebby?" Taylor asks, coming up beside him. "What? Don't tell me I got traded. I just got you back."

"No," Jordan forces out. His lock screen has dimmed, so he hits the button again to wake it up. "It's Yak."

"What did Yak..." Taylor trails off as he reads the notification on top: _Nail Yakupov agrees to one-year, $875,000 deal with Colorado Avalanche._

Jordan forces himself to swallow. "He doesn't know."

"He doesn't have to," Taylor says immediately. When Jordan looks over, he looks as determined as Jordan has ever seen. "This thing already fucked things up for him once. He doesn't have to _know_ , Jordan."

"We can't lie to him about it," Jordan replies.

Jordan's phone starts ringing; he's not surprised to see Ryan's number flash on the screen. He answers immediately. "Hey, Nuge. I'm putting you on speaker."

"It's me and Connor," are the first words out of Ryan's mouth. "We have to tell Yak. He can't just… we can't keep it from him."

"We don't have to tell him anything," Taylor says, ever the stubborn one. "It's just gonna freak him out. This could be his chance to start over for real. I don't want to take that from him, not when we're gonna fix it in a week."

"He's gonna be able to tell," Connor says gently. "And I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but there's always the chance that…"

"Don't," Jordan and Ryan snap at the same time.

Connor sighs. "Look at it this way, Hallsy: if we knew it had moved to New Jersey, wouldn't you want to know?"

Taylor closes his eyes, and Jordan can see everything pass through his mind: Nail's dream, his terror, the way everyone around him had tried to move heaven and earth. What Jordan had done. The possibility of it happening again, but not knowing about it beforehand.

"Yeah," Taylor finally says. "But how do we even…"

"We tell him he doesn't have to be involved," Ryan says firmly. "He can stay in Nizhnekamsk. We're going to take care of it."

"Yeah," Connor agrees. "He should know about it, but he should also know that he doesn't have to deal with it."

"Fucking Puck," Jordan says, rubbing at his eyes. "Honestly, I'm glad we're getting rid of it, but I'm just as glad that we're gonna get to know _why_ soon."

"Bettman," Ryan mutters, and it sounds like a swear word. It might as well be, if you ask Jordan.

-0-

To say that Nail doesn't take the news well is honestly an understatement.

"No," he says blankly. He's staring at the Skype window, not truly facing the camera, and he's going pale. "No. Davo and his friends got rid of it."

"And Bettman brought it back," Taylor says again. "And this time, we're not just getting rid of it, we're killing it."

"No," Nail repeats, eerily calm. "It was in Edmonton, not in Denver."

Jordan glances at the screen, meeting Ryan's concerned gaze. "Nail," Ryan says gently, "is there someone else there? Your dad, maybe, or your sister?"

"Alina is here," Nail says. "I should—where is Alina?"

"I'll text her," Connor says. "Breathe, buddy, okay? Can you take a deep breath?"

"You got rid of it," Nail says, voice pleading. "It cannot hurt me."

"You're damn right it can't," Taylor says firmly. "You stay right where you are, okay, and we'll get rid of it for real this time."

Alina skids into the room, still clutching her phone. "What is— _Nailyok_ ," she says, dropping the phone and reaching for her brother. He slumps into her side, and Jordan can see his shoulders start to shake. Alina starts speaking fast, quiet Russian, and Nail shakes his head.

"What happened?" she asks, snapping her gaze to the computer.

"The demon," Connor says quietly. "It's in Denver."

Alina goes back to Russian, but Jordan definitely knows most of those words.

"We're taking care of it," Jordan adds. "Just… we thought he should know."

Alina nods curtly. "Thank you," she replies. "We will call." She reaches out and ends the call.

"Well," Connor says after a moment. "I feel like we maybe should have had him get Alina before we started this whole thing."

"Now we know," Taylor mutters. "If, like, Smytty comes out of retirement to sign with the Avs, we'll know beforehand."

Ryan snorts. "Unlikely, but I guess we can keep it in mind."

"How's the whole Gretzky-wrangling thing going?" Jordan asks.

Connor makes a face. "Aly's gonna do it, but it isn't going to be the most fun anyone's ever had."

"I don't think anybody was expecting it to be fun," Jordan says dryly. "At least we figured out how to get him there."

"I'm worried it's gonna make him worse, somehow," Ryan says. "Like, Puck already has everything of his that isn't hockey. What if…"

There's a bleak moment of silence after that, and it feels like none of them want to break it. Eventually, though, Jordan sighs. "Then we deal with it," he says. He honestly doesn't know what else they could even say at this point. "But for now, we trust that Aly knows what she's doing."

"Always a good bet," Ryan says, nodding. "And we keep our fingers crossed, I guess."

Taylor sighs. "What still needs to be done before we head to Denver?"

Connor makes a face. "We have to figure out how to get Bettman there."

"I thought Ovi was taking care of that," Jordan says, raising an eyebrow.

"He offered to, but I was a little afraid to let him do it," Connor admits. "I trust him, but sometimes he's… a lot."

"You can say that again," Taylor says, snorting.

Ryan's making a thoughtful face; Jordan figures he can wait it out, but Ryan just frowns and stays quiet. Jordan raises an eyebrow at him. "What are you thinking, Nuge?"

"What if we tell him?" Ryan finally says. "Not that we know it was him, but that we figured out there's a demon in Denver, please meet us there, we're gonna get rid of it again?"

"And we only tell him a day or two before," Connor says, clearly catching on. "So he can't get there before we do, and he doesn't have enough time to do anything about it."

"And then we have a nice question and answer session," Taylor says darkly. "I'm still reserving the right to, like, kick him in the balls. Just so we're all clear on that."

"Fair," Ryan concedes. "Ebs? Thoughts?"

"It could work," Jordan says. He's not sure about it, but then again, he's pretty confident that they're all sort of flying by the seat of their collective pants at this point. "We tell him that we didn't want to bother him, but we know it's the same one as last time, so there might be someone in the League trying to sabotage him…"

"Yeah, puff up his ego, draw him in," Taylor says, nodding. "And then when he gets there, we set Crouse and Konecny loose and figure out what the fuck his problem is."

Ryan laughs, a little huff of breath. "We'll need to bind him there," he says. "I can do it, but I feel like we should ask around, see if anyone has a more… cost-effective way of doing it, I guess."

"Maybe Landy can bring his crazy rock," Jordan suggests. "Wasn't he going to tell you how to do it yourself?"

Ryan shrugs a little. "He did, but it's kind of a lot of work," he says. "It's the kind of thing that I'd bring if I had it, but I haven't had the time to make it yet."

"Well, we'll see if we can figure out a binding spell without having to drain anyone's magic," Jordan says. "Something tells me we're gonna need to hold onto as much of that as we can."

"Ominous but true," Taylor says. "We'll ask around, I guess. Maybe someone else has a crazy rock."

"I don't think there's, like, a Crazy Rock Depot," Connor says, amused. "Maybe Backstrom, though."

"Maybe Backstrom," Ryan agrees. "It's worth asking."

"Okay, so we're gonna ask if Backstrom or anyone else has a crazy rock, and we're gonna wait and see on the Gretzky thing," Taylor says. "Anything else?"

"We're gonna make Denver safe for Yak," Connor says grimly, and really, there's nothing else to add after that.


	30. July: Noah

"What do you even pack to go commit demon murder?" Noah wonders, looking at his mostly-empty suitcase.

Jeff laughs, and it sounds far-away, like he's not right next to his phone. He's probably packing, too, Noah thinks. "Probably a spare outfit," he offers. "Just in case there's, like, demon guts involved."

"Yeah, I bet they stain," Noah says. "Something easy to move in. You never know what kind of demonic bullshit might go down and make you have to run."

"You are not killing a demon in lululemon," Jeff says sternly. "Pack some Canes-branded stuff. You get that for free."

Noah snorts. "I make how much in a year, and you're worried about me maybe ruining some brand-name athleticwear?"

"Waste not," Jeff says primly.

"Whatever you say, Scrooge," Noah says, smiling a little as he grabs for some of his Canes workout gear. Jeff's right: it's free, and he already has more of it than he knows what to do with. "When's your flight?"

"Two days," Jeff says. "I want to get in a little early, settle a little, get a couple of nights' worth of rest before we have to… do stuff."

"Yeah," Noah agrees. "I think that's everybody's plan, honestly."

Jeff hums. "I'm wondering if there's anything I should bring other than clothes," he says. "It feels like I'm forgetting something, but I don't know what."

"You'll wake up knowing after your nap on the plane," Noah replies. "Not even magically. That's just when people remember shit like that."

"Probably," Jeff says. "Hey, hang on, text."

Noah's phone buzzes a second later. "Here too," he says. He picks his phone up and reads the text; Nuge is worrying about a binding spell and a power source, and Noah frowns a little. He doesn't have anything that'll help with that, but it does shake a memory loose: Wardo, two quarters, a warning not to use them in vending machines. "Jeff."

"Yeah?" Jeff says absently. "I don't have anything on that, do you?"

"No, but Wardo," Noah says. "Those charmed coins he gave us. Now or never, right?"

"Shit, you're right," Jeff says, sounding a little excited. "I mean, I hope to the gods that we never need protection more than we do during this whole mess."

"Exactly," Noah says, nodding a little. It only takes him a few seconds to dig it out; he'd put the quarter in a little jewelry box, the kind that necklaces come in. He doesn't regret buying his mom the jewelry, but he does sort of feel bad that it only occurred to him so he'd have a reason to ask for the box. It's in the back of his shirt drawer, but he finds it easily enough. It doesn't shine, doesn't glow, doesn't give any kind of indication that it's special, but the charms spread liquid up his arm as soon as he touches it.

"What if," Jeff says slowly, and Noah pulls his hand away, shuts the box, and tucks it into his suitcase. He doesn't need the charms right now, and it's not like they run out, but it seems like the principle of the thing. "Davo doesn't have any magic, right? And Gretzky is…"

"We can give them to the other guys," Noah says, catching on. "Make sure they have a little bit of a safety net."

"Crosby can more than take care of himself," Jeff says. "But we can give one to Davo and one to Gretzky, and then they'll have something extra."

"Good plan," Noah says, nodding a little. "Every little bit helps, and this is more than a little."

"Right," Jeff says. "Good call on remembering those. I think they'll probably make everyone feel a little better."

"Can't hurt," Noah agrees. He throws another Canes shirt into his bag. "So what's the rest of your summer look like?"

There's a bit of silence, and then Jeff starts laughing. "I haven't really made plans," he says. "I've been a little busy with all the demon stuff, you know?"

Noah grins. "I mean, I know," he says. "But we should make plans. Meet up later in the month for something that's totally not demon-related."

"Not demon-related," Jeff echoes. "That sounds like a nice change."

"It does," Noah says. "I feel like... I don't know. Like having plans for after is a good idea or something."

"Something to come back for," Jeff says firmly. "Absolutely."

"So how about it?" Noah says. "What are our plans for after?"

"I could come to you, maybe," Jeff says. "We could do some stuff with your family. Take your brother and sister out for ice cream, play some two-on-two."

"I get Lily," Noah says immediately. "Like, don't get me wrong, Cole's good, but I definitely get Lily."

Jeff laughs. "That's fine. Cole and I can take you."

"You can't," Noah says seriously. "But you're welcome to try."

"I will," Jeff promises. "Anything else we should do?"

Noah makes a face. "I mean, there's a lot of, like, American Revolution history around here if you're interested," he says. "Boston's got a bunch of fun stuff to do. We can look around."

"All I've ever seen in Boston is the ride to TD Garden from the hotel," Jeff informs him. "Boston sounds fun."

"Boston's okay," Noah says. He's allowed; he's from Boston, more or less. "We could Google, maybe."

"Google is everyone's friend," Jeff says. "Except, like, other search engines, probably."

"Yahoo and Google aren't friends?" Noah says dryly. He surveys what's in his suitcase, deems it good enough, and zips it shut. "I never would have guessed."

"Sorry to break it to you," Jeff says cheerily. "In happier news, our mutual friend Google tells me that there are a bunch of escape rooms in Boston. I say we do a few, get good at them, and then kidnap the rookies when we get back to Raleigh for camp."

"Sounds like a plan," Noah says, smiling. "You, me, escape rooms. After all of this is over."

"I'll be there," Jeff promises, and Noah can tell that he's smiling too.

-0-

The flight to Denver isn't actually that long; Noah might be getting too used to air travel now, but it really feels like four hours isn't a big deal. He sleeps through most of it, anyway, and lands just in time for the clouds to roll in for a summer afternoon thunderstorm.

"Nice," he mutters, looking out the plane window. "Thought it was supposed to be sunny here all the time."

The woman in the seat behind him snorts. "It'll pass," she advises. "And yeah, we get 300 days of sun a year, but that does actually leave about two months of crap."

Noah smiles at her. "Thought that was all snow during the winter," he says.

"We get that too," she says, laughing. "But don't count out the summer storms."

"I'll keep that in mind, thanks," Noah says, standing and pulling his bag down from the overhead bin. "Can I grab anything for you?"

"The purple flowered one, please," the woman says. Noah grabs it and puts it down for her, then gives a wave as he heads for the exit. He's looking forward to getting to the hotel; he might be pretty used to the flying part of travel, but he definitely always wants a shower right after.

He gets down to baggage claim pretty quickly, given the fact that he actually has to take a monorail to get from the gate to the terminal, and he's getting ready to head to the parking lot and flag down a taxi when he hears someone call his name. He turns and sees a woman waving at him, NWHL logo visible on her shirt, so he smiles and walks over.

"I'm Blake Bolden," she says, holding a hand out when he gets close. "I'm also your ride."

"Oh, hey, thanks," he says, shaking her hand. "I'm Noah Hanifin."

"Good thing, or I'd be offering rides to strangers," she replies, grinning. "Don't tell Kess. She'll never let me hear the end of it."

"Pinkie swear," he says, following her out into the parking lot. The rain has stopped, but it's the kind of muggy that Noah associates with Raleigh in the summer, not Denver. "Who else is here?"

"Almost everyone," she says, leading him through the cars. "We're waiting on Wicks, but she's coming down with Gretzky, so that's gonna be last-minute. Other than that, I think we just need Chuey and a bunch of the Toronto boys."

"Right, them I knew about," Noah says. He knows they're going to be cutting it a little close; Marns had wanted as much practice time as possible with Crouser and TK, so he and Stromer are flying in with them the morning before they're all going dimension-diving. He's just hoping that everything goes as smoothly as it can. There are too many moving parts for him to feel totally comfortable, but he doubts anyone involved actually does by now.

"Good," she says. "Maybe you can make me, like, a flip-card book or something. There are way too many of you for me to keep track of."

Noah snorts. "Some days I feel the same way," he says. "I'll see what I can do, though. Maybe a PowerPoint."

"Gotta love PowerPoint," Bolden agrees. She stops beside a car and pops the trunk. "This is us. Throw your stuff in and let's get to the hotel."

"Yes, please," Noah says fervently, and she just laughs at him.

Bolden doesn't actually have a ton of questions for him; either someone already caught her up on things, or she's figured out that he's not exactly the one to ask. Noah knows the details, but he's not as good at putting them in order so they make sense as a lot of the other guys are. Mostly she just asks him about what it's like to play against certain guys, how he defends against some or skates against others. She plays defense too, he finds out, and they swap tips for the last part of the ride to the hotel.

"You better use that poke-check," she says as they pull into a parking spot. "I don't share the goods with just anyone, Hanny. I'll be watching."

"I'll figure it out," he promises, getting out and heading towards the trunk for his bag. "Maybe not, like, the first game of the season. I need time."

"I'm timing you," she tosses back. "Countdown's on, man. You have until… October 28."

He laughs and starts heading for the hotel, waiting for Bolden to click the lock on the remote. "Any particular reason for the date?"

"Nah," she says, shrugging and walking past him. "You don't get a whole month. Be better, Mr. Fifth Overall."

"I'll do my best," he says, grinning and following her in.

It doesn't take long to check in; Jeff's already here, and he's got Noah's keycard, so it's just a matter of stopping at the front desk and letting them know. Bolden stays on the elevator when Noah gets off, giving him a wave as the doors shut. Noah walks down the hallway, searching for the room, and knocks when he gets there.

Jeff's smiling when he opens the door, and Noah walks in and tosses his bag to the bed before giving him a hug. "I need a shower," he says into Jeff's hair, and Jeff laughs and pushes him away.

"Go," he instructs. "We're having dinner with a few of the guys. We have, like, an hour before we have to leave."

"Who?" Noah asks, opening his suitcase. "And where? I didn't exactly bring anything fancy."

Jeff snorts. "Yeah, I don't think anyone did. We're going to Gabe's place. He's promised good Chinese takeout. It's him, Nate, Picks, and Jo, I think."

"Nice," Noah says. He can absolutely wear Canes stuff for that. "Give me twenty?"

"You got it," Jeff says. "Do you want me to, like, time you, or is that just a guess?"

Noah throws a pair of socks at him. "Why did I miss you?"

"Dunno," Jeff says, smiling brightly, and they both know he's lying.

Noah doesn't actually mind.


	31. July: Nate

Nate sort of feels like he's playing host to the worst possible alternative to the All-Star Game. There are a bunch of hockey players in his city; they're all here so they can go to the Pepsi Center. Everyone else has this time of the year off. Jo thinks he's shoehorning the comparison a little, but Nate can't get it out of his head.

"We wouldn't have NWHL or CWHL players here if it was the All-Star Game," Jo points out.

"We might," Nate insists. "They had their All-Star game in Pittsburgh last season."

Jo sighs. "There's no convincing you otherwise, is there?"

"Nope," Nate says cheerily. It's kind of forced and he's pretty sure Jo can tell, but they're getting down to the wire, and he's worried. He'll get past it soon enough, just like he does before a game, but for now, he's… concerned. He'll go with concerned.

"When are we leaving to go get Wicks and her precious cargo?" Jo asks. It's only sort of a subject change, but Nate will take it.

"Probably soon," Nate says, glancing at his watch. "Man, I'm not gonna miss playing taxi service when this is all over."

Jo snorts. "I think there are bigger things you won't miss."

"You can say that again," Nate agrees. "But, like, don't. We actually should get on the road, just in case there's traffic on 25."

"If there's one thing I've learned about Denver, it's that there is always traffic on 25," Jo says, following when Nate heads for the door. "I've never seen a highway with so many accidents."

"Nobody here can drive," Nate half-whispers, as if it's a secret. "And then people are always here from out of town, and it's like oil and water or something."

"Breakers and casters," Jo supplies, laughing a little. "Although I feel like that's more of an old wives' tale than the oil and water thing."

"It super is," Nate confirms. "I get along with breakers just fine."

"You get along with everyone just fine," Jo points out, climbing into the car. "That's your gift."

Nate has to bite back his first response, which was definitely too sappy to be said out loud; Jo's been pretty forgiving about not chirping him while they're in their own space, but he knows he's probably getting close to a limit. "What can I say, I'm just a friendly guy," he says instead.

"Mr. Friendly," Jo says, nodding. "Nobody could possibly hate you."

"I sure hope not," Nate replies. He's not that far from the highway; he doesn't see any traffic, but he knows better than to believe it.

Jo hums a little. "I'm going to meditate on the way there, if that's okay," he says. "Everything's been fine, but I want to make extra sure of that before Tuesday."

"Do your thing," Nate says, nodding. "We've got, like, half an hour. Probably closer to 45 minutes with the traffic."

"What traffic?" Jo asks as Nate crests a hill. They both groan at the sight of cars slowed to a near standstill.

Nate glares a little. "This one's on you."

"Sorry," Jo says, raising a hand to cover his mouth. He's smiling and they both know it, but Nate pretends not to see anyway.

"Meditate," Nate says, rolling his eyes and merging. "We're only on this road for, like, a mile and a half. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes, probably."

"Now they're going to close the road," Jo says, hitting Nate's should lightly. "I hope you left extra time."

"We had to get on 25," Nate says, checking his mirrors. "Of course I left extra time."

Jo hums and closes his eyes, so Nate focuses on staying in the right lane and proceeding at the speed of molasses. He mutters a spell under his breath, fingers dancing over the steering wheel, and the metal of the car shimmers a little as he casts it. The traffic sounds stop, and when the emergency vehicles whiz by in the shoulder, Jo doesn't even flinch.

It takes them almost an hour to get to the airport, all told, and Jo doesn't open his eyes until they're almost there. "Oh, I recognise this," he says, tracing his fingers against the window.

Nate snorts. "There's nothing to recognise here," he says. "This road is a whole bunch of nothing."

"And that's what I recognise," Jo says, shooting him a smile. "How far are we?"

"Ten minutes," Nate judges. "Everything look good with your magic?"

"Yes," Jo says, nodding. "Nothing out of the ordinary, and all of my wards are solid."

"Good," Nate says. "Hey, grab my phone, see if there's a text? I told Davo to give them my number so we could connect if we didn't find each other."

Jo grabs Nate's phone from the cupholder and types in the passcode. "There's one here from a number not in your phone," he reports, clicking on it and reading. "East Terminal, near the end of the building. They're not drawing a crowd, but Wicks would like you to hurry."

"There's not a whole hell of a lot I can do at this point," Nate mutters, but he gets into the left lane and guns it anyway.

There's a woman wearing an orange Oilers cap standing near the end of the terminal when they get there; Nate pulls to a stop in front of her, and Jo rolls down his window.

"Oh, good," the woman says, turning and waving at someone inside the building. She turns back to them and offers her hand. "I'm Alyson Brenniss. I'm also the one people won't recognise, so I'm out here instead of hiding." She smiles. "Call me Aly."

"Jo Drouin," Jo says, shaking her hand. "Can I help with your bags?"

"Yeah, come on," she says, jerking her head at the building. "You help me with the bags while Wicks gets him out here."

Nate cranes his neck to see past Jo, and he's glad he's alone for a second, because he definitely gasps a little when _Hayley Wickenheiser_ leads _Wayne Gretzky_ out of the terminal and towards the car. She's speaking in low, quiet tones as she keeps a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Here, hey," Nate says, scrambling out of the car and hurrying to the other side. He opens Jo's door. "He can sit up here, I guess."

Wicks gives him a nod. "C'mon, Wayne," she says, steering him in. "Get in, buckle up."

"Okay," Gretzky says, climbing in and pulling the seatbelt across his lap. Once it's buckled, he puts his hands in his lap and stares straight ahead.

"Uh," Nate mutters. He's heard everything Davo could possibly have to say on the subject of what has and hasn't happened to Gretzky, but it's more than a little disturbing to see in person.

"Yeah," Wicks says, sounding tired. "I'm going to crawl into the back. You and your friend can handle the bags, right?"

"Yeah, sure," Nate says, nodding a little too vigorously. "There's, uh, there's some waters back there. I know how planes are."

"Thanks, Mack," Wicks says, clapping him on the shoulder before getting into the back off the SUV.

Nate doesn't blurt out _she knows who I am,_ but it's really, really close. He hurries towards the terminal to help Jo and Aly with the bags, and from there, it's quick work to get everything in and ready to go.

"Are you staying with the rest of the guys?" Nate asks as he checks his mirrors and heads towards the exit.

"Aly and I are," Wicks says. "Wayne is staying with Landeskog."

 _Protection,_ Nate thinks, closely followed by _lucky bastard_ and _he could have freaking warned me_. "Okay," he says instead of voicing any of that. "Well, unless you have an objection, we'll go to Gabe's first and get Mr. Gretzky settled, and then head to the hotel from there."

"Sounds perfect," Aly says. "Thanks, Nate."

Nate just nods as he merges onto the exit ramp.

-0-

Wicks moves to the front seat after they get Gretzky settled in with Gabe. She definitely gets seniority, so Nate doesn't say anything; also, it's Hayley freaking Wickenheiser, so he doesn't even _want_ to say anything.

"To the hotel," Nate says, aiming for bright.

Wicks sighs. "I don't want to hope too much, here, but it would be really nice to… get him back, I guess."

Nate winces a little. Leaving Gretzky with Gabe had been really, really weird; it's not like Nate had been expecting him to throw a tantrum like a kid or anything, but he'd pretty much just done what Wicks had told him to do, including nodding when she told him to do what Gabe said. It's not that Nate had expected someone without a soul to be a super active participant in any conversation, especially after the car ride they'd been through, but it was still unnerving to see Gretzky turn from Wicks to Gabe with an expectant look on his face.

"Yeah," Nate finally says. "Me too."

"I didn't know him before," she says, sighing a little. "From everyone I've talked to, though, he was really great."

"Yeah, that's what I've heard, too," Aly volunteers from the back seat. "Mark Messier… they were pretty much best friends, you know? I've heard a lot of good things."

"He used to be a caster," Wicks says, playing with her bottle of water as she stares out the window. "Not super great or anything, but he held his own. Ever since the trade, though…"

"Puck took his _magic_ ," Jo says, voice horrified, just as Nate figures it out. "Gods above."

"Hopefully they can give it back," Wicks says tiredly. "The hockey gods are pretty powerful, when they want to be."

"When they want to be," Nate echoes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Wicks' hands go still in her lap. "This isn't a sure thing," she says carefully. "This is the best chance anybody here has, Mack, but you have to know it's not a definite."

"It's not that bad," Jo says from the back seat. There's a pause before he adds, "Is it?"

"I don't mean to scare you," Wicks says. She turns around and flicks a smile at Jo. "It's not impossible, not at all. I don't see the hockey gods turning us away this time."

"By _see_ ," Nate says immediately.

"No, nothing like that," Wicks says, laughing a little as she turns back around. "Nothing extramagical. I just doubt that they'll let this kind of thing stand."

"Wish we'd known about that last year," Nate says. "Or, like, a lot of years ago, when Puck first happened."

"Yeah," Aly agrees. "Except I don't think they deal in curses, so we wouldn't have known to summon them."

"And you didn't have three generational talents until recently," Jo adds. "Would it have been enough, before?"

Wicks laughs a little. "The golden trio is not the only way to the hockey gods. It's just the quickest one right now."

"I am learning a lot of things today," Nate says as that sinks in. "How else can they be summoned?"

"Well, they tend to listen to people who pay attention to them," Wicks says. "Or people who… let's just say that there are people who have a much more direct connection to the other side."

"Huh," Nate says, mulling it over.

"How many of them are there?" Jo asks curiously.

"Nobody really knows," Aly says. "I did a bunch of reading after we decided this was the plan. There are a bunch of theories out there about how many there are and how new ones are created, but they really are just theories. There's nothing even close to definite out there."

"How do you even look something like that up?" Nate asks. "Man, I wish I had done the reading. I didn't know there was reading."

"There's always reading, Nathan," Jo says, clearly amused. "Google is your friend."

"Shush," Nate says, smiling. "So are we gonna see a bunch of guys in Jacques Plante's original mask or something?"

"It's possible," Wicks says. "I haven't had any personal experiences with the gods myself, but Cammi Granato swears she has." She hesitates. "There are rumors that the gods look like… players. Like I said, I can't swear to that myself, but I've heard it from more than one person."

"Creepy," Jo comments. "So we have no idea what we're going to be summoning?"

"Basically," Wicks says, shrugging a little. "I mean, it might be cool to meet, like, Gordie Howe, even if it might also be super weird."

Nate has a sudden thought. "Is Gretzky..."

"Maybe," Wicks says, voice suddenly heavy again. "Without his soul, it's really hard to predict what'll happen. If anyone deserves to have some sort of hockey afterlife, it's Gretz, but we don't know if it's a real thing, and we don't know what'll happen to him anyway."

"Right," Jo says firmly. "We'll just have to make sure he gets it back, then. Give him the best shot, eh?"

"We'll do our best," Wicks agrees.

Nate nods, but he doesn't really have anything else to add, and everyone lapses into silence for the rest of the drive.


	32. July: Dylan

It's a little funny, Dylan thinks somewhere above the middle of the US. It isn't actually true, but he feels like a lot of key moments with Mitch have been flight-related in one way or another. They sort of got things out in the open when they first flew to Edmonton to help Connor; they've dreamed together in a lot of airports. Mitch had to lead him by hand through Pearson, and then again through the airport on PEI when they flew to the beach.

And now here they are, flying to Denver together, armrest pulled up so Mitch can rest against Dylan's side while neither of them sleeps. It doesn't feel like it should be momentous, but it is anyway, and Dylan can't shake the thought.

Mitch pushes a feeling at him, question and concern, and Dylan sighs and tugs lightly at the drawstring of Mitch's hoodie. "Airplanes," he says, and pushes a tangle of feelings at Mitch.

"Airplanes," Mitch agrees, doing the same. It a mixture of pretty much everything Dylan's feeling, the hope and the worry and the overwhelming certainty that no matter what happens, in the end, they'll be okay. They have to be.

"You two are weird," Crouser drawls from the other side of the aisle. "Like, not news, but."

"Pot, meet kettle," Mitch shoots back, and then he sticks out his tongue.

"This is who you've picked to share a brain with," Crouser says, looking squarely at Dylan. "I hope you're prepared for a lifetime of this."

"I'll manage," Dylan says. He can feel the goofy smile spreading across his face, and from the way Crouser rolls his eyes and sighs, it's not subtle at all.

"How long until we land?" TK asks from Crouser's other side. "I want to get one more practice in before we get this show on the road, if we can."

"We should be able to," Mitch says. "We land in, like, 45 minutes, and things don't start happening until tomorrow morning."

"Good," TK says. "I'm pretty sure we've got it down, but, y'know."

"Skate, skate, skate," Dylan says. They all nod; it's the hockey equivalent of "practice makes perfect," more or less. "You want new test subjects? Change it up a little?"

"Probably a good idea," Crouser replies. "We should see if we can get a few tries in, maybe. We don't want to be too used to one thing, and then have the real deal be totally different."

 _We have no idea what Bettman is or isn't,_ Crouser had said last night. He might be fully human, but he might not, and there's no way to know until it's far too late to adjust for variables. TK had said they'd be ready, though, and Dylan trusts him on that.

"Yeah," Dylan says aloud. "I'm sure we can get a few volunteers. Maybe even some of the, uh, weirder kind."

"The weirder, the better," TK says solemnly. "Weird's gonna be my new middle name, or something."

"Travis Weird Konecny," Crouser muses. "Dunno, man, it's doesn't really flow off the tongue."

"I'll give you," TK starts, then makes face, "Ew, nevermind."

Mitch snickers, and Dylan feels it more than sees it. "Gross, TK."

"I stopped!" TK protests.

Dylan opens his mouth to reply, but the flight attendant comes over the speaker to tell them about putting tray tables up and preparing for landing. Mitch sighs and pushes off of him, returning to his own seat with a truly grumpy look on his face. Dylan bites his cheek as he puts his seat straight up again.

They've all gotten good at flying; it doesn't take them long to get off the plane and head towards the exit. Hallsy's there to pick them up, a grimly determined look on his face. "Hey," he says, nodding at them. "Ready?"

"Ooh, can we practice on you?" TK asks, staring at Hallsy with undisguised interest.

"That feels like a loaded question," Hallsy answers, leading them towards the exit. "Give me a little more info, please."

"Their party trick for tomorrow," Mitch says as they follow Hallsy outside. "So far they've only practiced on us, and you're well." He gestures. "Different."

Hallsy grins. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Magic works on me the same as it does on anyone else, though."

"Still worth the practice," Crouser says, shrugging a little. "We'll be ready, but it can't hurt."

"Yeah, man, whatever floats your boat," Hallsy says. "Let's get back to the hotel. We can grab a few of the guys and a meeting room."

"Awesome," TK says. "Is everyone else here?"

"Yeah," Hallsy replies, clicking the remote on his keychain. A nearby SUV beeps accordingly, and Hallsy pops the back so they can shove their carry-ons in. "You guys are the last ones in, except for the guest of honor."

Dylan smiles grimly. "Gotta make sure everything's perfect for when _he_ gets here," he says as he climbs into the back. Mitch scrambles in after him, linking their hands together after they buckle up. "We wouldn't want anything going wrong."

"It won't," Hallsy says, smooth and confident.

Mitch snorts. "No offense, man, but I'd feel a lot better if it was TK saying that."

"No can do," TK says, shrugging. "I've only got so much in me. I'm gonna save it for tomorrow, except what I'm practicing with tonight."

"Damn," Hallsy mutters as he pulls out of the parking spot. "Guess we'll just have to rely on doing it the old-fashioned way, eh?"

"We'll be fine," Mitch says, voice full of confidence that his mind isn't totally backing up. Dylan squeezes his hand. "We've been planning this for months. It'll all be good."

"Damn right," Hallsy says. "We've got crazy talent on our side."

"And, like, a bunch of fae, a demigod, and whatever TK and Crouser are," Dylan adds. "I like our odds."

"Good, because we're pretty odd," Crouser says. He manages to hold a straight face for almost two entire seconds before snickering.

"The Odd Couple," Mitch says, laughing a little. "It fits."

"What's that you were saying earlier about pots and kettles?" TK asks.

Dylan smiles a little and relaxes. Tomorrow's going to be one hell of a ride, but today he's gonna do his best to enjoy everything that comes his way.

-0-

Dylan wakes up on the morning of the 11th completely and blissfully calm. It lasts all of about fifteen seconds, and then he takes a deep, sharp breath, and feels Mitch snap from completely asleep to wide awake.

"Hey, breathe," Mitch says, flinging himself half on top of Dylan. "We're gonna be fine, babe. Everything's gonna go fine."

Dylan doesn't say anything; he reaches down for Mitch's hand and holds on, focusing on the way their magic flows between them until he can take a deep breath without feeling like his ribs are going to crack open and abandon his heart to its fate. "Sorry," he manages after a minute or ten. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

Mitch smiles against Dylan's shoulder. "What's a soulbond even for if it doesn't wake me up when you're having an emotional crisis?"

It startles a laugh out of Dylan. "I mean, who even knows?" he replies.

"How much time do we have?" Mitch asks.

Dylan reaches over for his phone. "Alarm's going off in about ten minutes," he says.

Mitch hums. "Shower with me?" he asks. "We can get a nice, long one in if we get up now."

"You had me at _shower_ ," Dylan says, squeezing Mitch's hand again before dropping it.

They shower and then get ready; they're staggering their arrivals at the Pepsi Center so they don't raise too much suspicion, although Dylan privately wonders if it's worth it. There's gonna be a lot of suspicion when they all walk out and start casting at centre ice. There's no reason not to be cautious, though, so Mitch and Dylan are meeting Landy and Backy there for the first wave of things.

"Morning," Landy says cheerily. "I got a muffin tray. Please eat one."

Dylan eyes him dubiously. "Aren't you supposed to not take food if a fae offers it?"

"I mean, you can be hungry if you want," Landy says lightly.

"You can eat it safely," Backy adds from behind him. "Fae rules only hold in fae domain."

"Good to know," Mitch says, walking past Dylan and looking at the muffin tray. "Oh my god, blueberry!"

"With crumbles?" Dylan asks, perking up.

Landy scoffs. "As if I'd buy muffins without crumbles."

He eats as Landy and Backy go over their part of the plan; Landy's going to do the binding spell, and Backy's going to be his extra power source, if push comes to shove. Apparently Bettman knows they're both fae and that Backy's more or less in charge, so it won't be too weird for Backy to be here helping Gabe out. Dylan's just glad that they found someone to do the binding in the first place. He doesn't like his own odds at holding Bettman when all he wants to do is high-stick the guy in the face.

"Okay," he says when he's finished his muffin. "Where are we stashing ourselves?"

"Where the visitor's penalty box would be if the rink was set up," Backy says. "We'll hide you once you're there. You'll be able to see, but he won't be able to see you until you step out of the charm."

Mitch snorts. "Any particular reason we're in the penalty box?"

"Two minutes for 'your magic does something I've never seen before,'" Backy says calmly, gesturing to Mitch's wrist. "If it makes you feel any better, Crouse and Konecny get the other penalty box area."

Dylan snorts. "Fair," he says. "Oh, hey, the recorder."

"Right, yeah," Landy says, walking to his stall. He grabs something from his bag and tosses it to Dylan; it's a pretty simple voice recorder, something you could probably get on Amazon for twenty bucks. "It should pick everything up, but try to stay near the binding circle."

"Will do," Dylan confirms. "Ready?"

"Let's do this," Mitch says, standing up. He reaches for Dylan's hand as they start walking, and Dylan holds on tightly as they cross the arena. There are two chairs sitting roughly where the visitor's penalty box would be, and two more in the home spot. Dylan walks to the visitor's one and sits, tugging Mitch down beside him.

"You'll be able to hear us," Landy says, "but no sound will come out of here. You shouldn't run into any problems, but if you do, you'll need to leave the spell field to give us a heads up."

Mitch hums. "You're sure he won't notice all this random spellwork?"

Landy smiles tightly. "I told him I put a bunch of fae spellwork into the arena for protection. He'll chalk it up to that and nothing more."

"Okay," Dylan says. "Kick ass, guys."

"That's the plan," Backy confirms. "We'll see you shortly."

He steps back and lets his glamour drop, and Dylan's stomach lurches a little. It's intimidating, seeing Backy in his fae form, and it doesn't help that Landy immediately does the same. Their smoke magic swirls together in the air, neither of them saying a word, and it drifts with purpose to curl around Dylan and Mitch. After a moment, Backy nods, and suddenly Dylan's staring down two normal-looking guys.

"That is fucking freaky," Mitch says evenly.

"Hope it's the freakiest thing today," Dylan mutters. Mitch throws him a look and squeezes his hand sympathetically, and Dylan snorts. "Yeah, I doubt it, too."

They watch as TK and Crouser arrive and get pretty much the same treatment; Mitch tries yelling over to them once all the spellwork has settled, but Dylan can't see them and he doesn't hear anything, either. Mitch grins at him. "Just checking."

"I'm so glad to hear that," Dylan says, amused. "We're good?"

"We're good," Mitch confirms. "Part of me wants to ask them how they do that, but the rest of it is super fine with not knowing."

"I'll stick with not knowing," Dylan confirms as Connor and Ryan walk in. They're part of the second-to-last group, Dylan knows; the last group is the most terrifying, because it's Jo and Mack and the man of the hour, who they picked up from the airport. Dylan does his best not to tense up too much as he hears Nate say something in the tunnel leading onto the arena floor, but Mitch sucks in a sharp breath beside him. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that no matter what happens from here, they're in this together.


	33. July: Gabe

Gabe is pretending at calm when Nate and Jo walk in with Bettman. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch, but Nicke says something low under his breath anyway, something that's less words and more meaning. Gabe inhales and exhales evenly, sending Bettman the best smile he can, under the circumstances.

"Gabe, hello, how's it going," Bettman says as he strides over. "What's this you're telling me? There's a _demon_ here?"

"Yes, sir," Gabe says. He's glad that sounding stressed is kind of part of what he's doing here; it's stressing him out just thinking about how much harm Bettman has done. "I found a concealment charm, and when I uncovered it… well, I talked to these guys." He gestures to Nuge and Davo.

"We met up with this thing last year," Davo says solemnly. "We knew what it was the second Landy showed us the mark."

Bettman frowns. "Wait, the thing in Edmonton… it wasn't a curse? They told me they'd finally broken the curse!"

Gabe will give the man this: he actually looks surprised. He's a better actor than person, but then Gabe supposes that makes sense; actors lie for a living, after all.

Nuge takes over smoothly. "They thought it was, sir. We got rid of it, but it was easier to just… let them think they'd broken it."

"And now someone brought it here," Gabe finishes, gesturing to where the concealment charm is hovering at the centre ice mark. "We wanted to bring you in and let you know what was going on. If someone brought it here right after it was in Edmonton, well, then someone's out to bring down the League."

"You boys did the right thing, calling me," Bettman says, nodding and taking a hesitant step towards centre ice. "Is it here right now?"

"It is," Nicke says, voice level and calm. "We can show you, but you have to get close so we can lift the concealment charm. It's not safe to do it if you're not close to it, but we won't let it get to you, Commissioner."

"Show me," Bettman says confidently. Gabe watches him sharply as he walks slowly towards centre ice. Three steps, two, one—

Gabe takes a deep breath in and blows out a torrent of purple smoke, and Bettman shouts in shock. Gabe smiles, letting it be as vicious as he's actually feeling as he guides the smoke around, securing Bettman in a small circle near the binding mark.

"What are you doing?" Bettman yells as the smoke clears. "What is this?"

"Okay," Nicke says calmly, not looking away from Bettman. "Show time."

TK and Crouse appear almost instantly. Crouse waits next to Nicke, but TK walks around the perimeter of the circle. "Okay, good," he says, nodding at Gabe. "This is a manageable size. Thanks, man."

"I aim to please," Gabe says, grinning. He knows his glamour is slipping, but he is completely and totally out of fucks to give at this point, frankly.

"What is going _on_?" Bettman hollers.

"You know what," Strome says, appearing out of nowhere, Marner following him. The concealment charm drops behind them, showing the chairs they'd been sitting in. "He yells a lot for a guy who summoned the demon we're telling him about."

"He really does," Marner agrees.

"You," Bettman spits furiously.

"Here, Commissioner, look here," TK says suddenly, and there's a hypnotic weight to it that makes Bettman jerk around almost comically to look at him. He's back standing next to Crouse, who has a hand on TK's shoulder. "You're going to answer all of our questions truthfully."

"What are you—" Bettman starts.

"And you're going to let us ask them," TK says, still calm. "Until I tell you otherwise."

Bettman falls silent. His jaw is working, but no sound comes from his mouth. He looks more furious than Gabe has ever seen a human look before.

"Okay, now that everything is set up," Nuge says, stepping towards the circle. "Did you summon the demon here?"

Bettman glares; Gabe wonders, suddenly, if he _is_ actually fully human. He's not pushing at the binding, and he's not turning anyone to ash with his eyeballs, but that's not actually a guarantee. There's nothing they can do about it now, though, so Gabe keeps his binding spell steady.

"Answer him," TK says, voice slightly sharper. "Tell him the truth."

"Yes," Betman grits out. "I brought the demon here. I summoned it and bound it at centre ice."

" _Why_?" Nate demands. Gabe leans in slightly; this is the important part, the thing he most needs the answer to.

"Because I needed to," Bettman says, like the words are being ripped from him. "Vegas. I need you to fail so Vegas looks good."

There's a moment of stunned silence before Jo breaks it. "You summoned a demon to help your pet expansion team?" he asks, disbelief clear in his voice.

"If the Avs failed and kept failing," Bettman spits out, "then Vegas automatically does better. It's automatically a success."

"Oh my fucking god," Strome says, disgust dripping from his voice. "I'd ask if you were serious right now, but we made damn sure you couldn't lie."

"He's trying," TK says. "I'm glad we got all that practice in, though. He doesn't have a shot."

"So let me get this straight," Nuge says. "You knew there was a demon in Edmonton and did nothing about it for a number of years." Bettman nods, but Nuge shakes his head. "Out loud, Gary. Loud enough for the recorder, please."

"Yes," Bettman says. "You're recording this?"

"Of course we're recording this," Strome says, showing him the recorder. The light is flashing in the corner. "You're a lawyer, you piece of garbage. You know about evidence."

"Later," Nuge says, and Strome goes quiet. "When you realised that the demon in Edmonton was gone, you went looking for it so you could bring it to Denver. Right?"

"Yes," Bettman echoes. "This is not a statement given of my own free will—"

"We're not aiming to present it as such," Nuge interrupts. "You set a demon free in the Pepsi Center for the express purpose of making the Avs look bad, at whatever cost, so you would look good for giving Las Vegas an expansion team that they may or may not have deserved."

"Yes, and they're going to look great," Bettman says fiercely. "I got what I wanted."

"Maybe, maybe not," Nate says, making a seesaw motion with his hand. "Here's a curveball for you. Did the demon get what _it_ wanted?"

"It got enough," Bettman says. "All the collective disappointment of the fans here, all the injuries."

"But did that fulfill the terms of the deal you made with it?" Jo asks, more patient than Gabe can imagine being right now. He distantly realises that Nicke made Gabe the primary on the binding spell so he'd have something to hold, some reason not to go rushing through and _do something_ to Bettman. He's not yet sure if he's grateful or not. "We're going to get rid of it today, Bettman. Is it going to go quietly, or is it going to take you with it?"

Bettman pales considerably; he goes from an angry, puffed-up red to pale and sweating in a moment. "You can't," he says forcefully. "No. No, you have to let it stay."

"Yeah, no," Marner says. "What the fuck, dude."

"Answer the question," TK says. He's starting to sweat; not a lot, but enough that Gabe can see it at his temples. Crouse's grip on his shoulder has to be hurting both of them, but neither one of them gives it away.

"I told it that it would stay here for two years," Bettman says. "Two years here, so the Golden Knights would have a year of easy competition, and then I'd move it to a different rink."

"You absolute son of a fucker," Strome says, a strained note in his voice. "You were going to singlehandedly cause every team in this goddamned hell league of yours to suffer so you looked like a fucking genius, putting a team in Vegas. You were going to let that _thing_ hurt and scar and try to _kill_ people for a _publicity stunt_."

"Yes," Bettman says. "It's going to do all of that for me. You can't actually stop it."

Strome laughs, a wild, malicious thing, and stares Bettman directly in the eyes. "Of fucking course we can, Gary. We're going to kill it."

"You can't kill a—" Bettman says, but his jaw clicks shut. His eyes widen almost comically as he looks at TK.

"You can't lie right now," TK says. The sweat is dripping slowly down his face. "It can die. We're going to do it."

"Don't," Bettman says hoarsely. "It'll take me with it."

Gabe stares for a moment. "You should have thought of that before you set it on my team," he says curtly. He nods at Nicke, and Nicke steps forward.

"Commissioner," he says, and Bettman turns to face him. Nicke lets his glamour drop completely, reaching out to touch Bettman's forehead gently. "Sleep."

Bettman drops to the ground, unconscious.

-0-

"What a fucking asshole," Ovi says, clearly enunciating each word, as Strome finishes playing the recording. It sounds almost calm, a commentary rather than a condemnation, but Gabe can see him bristling. "We taking him in there with us, right?"

"Yes," Nicke says before anyone can make an argument either way. "Our other option is leaving him here alone, and that's not happening."

"I'm not babysitting him once we get him in there," Julie Chu says, giving Nicke a truly inspiring unimpressed look. "None of us are. We're here to help."

"I would never ask you to," Nicke says, and Gabe feels the power of the truth in them, but he's not sure it carries over. Chu nods, though, and she looks a little less pissed, so Gabe will take it.

"What's the plan, then?" Amanda Kessel asks. She and Taylor Crosby have been giving Nate and Sid a lot of narrow-eyed stares when they're looking and laughing about it when they're not, and it's been kind of great for everyone's morale, honestly. Now, though, they both look pretty completely no-nonsense.

"We shouldn't just let him loose," Taylor adds. She looks at Nicke. "Unless you can keep him sleeping while we're in there."

"I can," Nicke says calmly. "And hidden, as well."

"Good," Hallsy says. He looks around, and Gabe feels suddenly fond of him; he's got a lot of bad history tied up in this demon, and he's had a lot of shit happen over the past year or so, but he looks steady, solid. "Anyone have any last questions about what we're doing in there? Because once we're in, we're pretty much in."

"Everyone's got their breaking point, right?" Jeff asks, looking around. He and Hanny had been in charge of making and distributing them, one for every person; it had been at least a little funny to get a baggie with his name on it and a rock in it, but Gabe's got it in his pocket now, and he sees a few of the others check, too.

"We're good, I think," Marie-Philip Poulin says. "We get in, we do what we're assigned, and then we get out."

"And if there are any problems, we yell," Natalie Spooner adds. "Loudly. And Ovi will hear us."

"Which I'm still confused about," Marner adds. "Do you have, like, bat hearing or something?"

Ovi grins. "Better. Bear hearing."

"Bear hearing," Strome echoes. He and Marner don't look at each other, but their eyes widen at the same time. "Holy shit. Are you—"

Ovi laughs, clearly delighted. "Yes, I said you the smart one," he says, pointing at Strome, and then in the blink of an eye there's a _fucking bear_ sitting where Ovi had been. Before anyone can react other than a collection of assorted yells, Ovi's back, grinning at them all.

Nobody says anything for a moment, and then Davo nods. "Bear hearing," he says. "Got it. Anything else anyone wants to share with the class?"

Emerance Maschmeyer raises her hand a little sheepishly. "I can teleport," she says. "Probably not useful today, but just to clear the air."

"She wears a blocker during games, before any of you get ideas," Spooner adds.

"There are blockers?" Jeff asks, clearly interested. "I've never heard of blockers."

"We can talk about it after," Masch offers. "I think we've got other things we need to do right now."

"We do," Gabe confirms. "Last chance to ask questions. Going once, going twice…"

"You're here," someone gasps, and they all turn pretty much in unison to see a very dishevelled Nail Yakupov staring at them from the door to the locker room.

"Yak," Ebs says, shooting to his feet. "What are you…"

Yakupov looks directly at Ebs, breathing hard as if he'd run all the way here from Russia, or at least the parking lot. "I let you fight this battle for me once already," he says, and Gabe doesn't know the story but he can tell the truth of it from the way all of the Oilers, past and present, flinch a little. "I will not let you do it without me again."

"Yak," Hallsy says, standing and walking over to him. "You don't have to do this. We told you."

"I do," Yakupov insists. He looks around, eyes lingering briefly on Gabe before finding Nicke. He steps towards him, and Gabe doesn't know how he can tell that Nicke is the most powerful one in the room, but it's definitely something to tuck away for later. "I can help. I _will_ help."

Nicke looks at him for a long moment, then nods. "This is your team," he says. "Go with the summoning group. Do as they say."

Yakupov nods and turns, and Davo waves him over. Gabe watches as he walks to them and hesitates before sitting, but Davo throws an arm around his shoulders and says something to him under his breath, and Gabe nods to himself a little. Davo was his captain in all but the C being stitched on his chest; Gabe can let him take this, and then reassure Yakupov on his own later.

"Okay," Nicke says. He sounds calm, almost as if he'd expected Yakupov to show up, but Gabe knows for a fact that it’s bullshit; he can't tell the future any better than Gabe can. "No need to put it off any longer. Wicks, if you'd get Aly and Gretzky, we can get started."

"Let's do this," someone says, and it sets them all in motion, more than a team's worth of people walking out to where the ice will be in a few months. Picks pulls the concealment charm off; there are more than a few gasps when the binding mark is revealed, but nobody looks like they're having second thoughts. It's a good thing; at this point, Gabe's not sure how their plan would survive if anyone decided to run for it, with the exception of maybe Yakupov.

Nicke looks around, then steps forward. Smoke erupts from his fingers, swirling and black and ethereal, and then he makes a tearing motion with his hands. It makes a crashing sound that echoes around in the arena, and then Nicke blows to clear the smoke away.

There's an opening, Gabe supposes, hanging in mid-air, large enough for them to step through. He glances around quickly; he sees the darkened seats in the lower bowl, then a bright, glowing spot hanging in the air, and then more seats. It's freaky, he decides. Even for him.

"Well," Davo says, clearing his throat a little. "Here goes nothing."

And he walks through the opening.


	34. July: Taylor

It's weird, Taylor decides as he walks into Puck's dimension, and he doesn't like it. That's probably the point, but still. According to everything Davo had eventually said about last time, Puck's world had been kind of flat and gray, nothing that could really be used as a landmark or anything. This is really, really different; it looks like a desert, dry and dusty, but all of the rock formations are, like... melted. Still melting, maybe.

He takes a deep breath, thinks about everything he's been practicing, and reaches his hand out, fingers outstretched. By the time his hand closes into a fist, his fingers are wrapped around the hilt of his fire sword. When he looks at it, he grins sharply. His power is _awesome_.

"Hey," Jordan says, grabbing his non-fire sword elbow and pulling him to the side, a few steps away from the rest of the group. "Be careful, okay?"

"Of course," Taylor says. "It's gonna be fine, Ebby. Don't even worry."

Jordan's lips twist a little. "I always worry about you," he says quietly, and it's sort of like a punch to the gut, because Taylor remembers Jordan holding him after he'd had his dream; Jordan, eyes clear and bright, kissing him fiercely before he'd made his deal with Puck; Jordan, not understanding why Taylor was so upset after but doing his best to fix it anyway. Every part of Taylor's always gonna love every part of Jordan, and he can't say he's never doubted the reverse, but he sure as hell doesn't right now.

"We're gonna be fine," Taylor says, dropping his sword and reaching for Jordan. Jordan lets himself be reeled in, and they cling to each other for a slow five-count before Taylor makes himself pull back.

"Just be careful," Jordan says, giving him a wobbly smile. "Your job is to poke it with a stick while the rest of us piss it off. Do your best to not let it get you, okay?"

"I will," Taylor says. He holds out his hand and Dorito appears, sniffing the air with interest. "Pet a baby dragon. It'll make you feel better."

Jordan laughs a little, but he reaches out to scratch behind Dorito's ears. Dorito make a high chirping noise, and before Taylor can catch him, launches himself at Jordan.

Jordan catches him by reflex, then looks up at Taylor, eyes wide. "Um."

"Uh," Taylor says. Dorito, oblivious to their confusion, scrambles up Jordan's arm and perches on his shoulder, chirping right in his ear. "That's… new."

"Can I have a fire sword?" Jordan asks, smile tugging at his face. "What the hell, Hallsy. He's supposed to disappear."

"Got me," Taylor says, shrugging a little. "Maybe it's just… being here. It's making things weird. Weirder."

Dorito bumps his face against Jordan's, and Jordan reaches up to scratch behind his ears a little. "Okay," he says, a little faint. "Well. I guess we know he likes me better."

Taylor scoffs. "You're new and interesting territory," he says. "He'll come back to me once he's figured out you're boring."

For whatever reason, that makes Jordan smile, a real, full smile. "Whatever you say," he says. "Get your sword back. We should get moving."

Taylor leans in and pokes Dorito's flat little nose. "You take care of him," he says seriously. "I'm trusting you, little dude." Dorito bumps his head very gently against Taylor's fingers and blows a stream of smoke at him, so Taylor nods and steps back.

"See you soon," Jordan says, leaning in to press a kiss to Taylor's mouth.

"See you soon," Taylor repeats, and then he grabs for his fire sword and turns away, looking for Backy. He doesn't let himself watch Jordan and Ovi start walking away.

"We should go," Backy says when Taylor walks over to him. "The sooner we find Puck, the more time the rest of them have to do their jobs."

"Bettman is hidden," Landy adds. "We just have to, like, set a reminder so we don't forget him on the way out."

"Do we have to?" Taylor asks. He's only half kidding, if he's being honest with himself. Maybe only a quarter.

Backy rolls his eyes. "Yes. We're not leaving him here."

"Fine," Taylor says. "Let's get cracking, then. Any idea how to find it?"

"Oh, yes," Backy says, grinning sharply. He seems to have more teeth than he actually should, but when Taylor blinks, he's back to normal. It's probably the least weird thing he's gonna see for a while, he figures, so he does his best to just… not think about it too hard.

"Let's get away from the rest of the group," Landy says. "Then we can make a nice, big distraction."

Taylor looks at the other two members of their group. He hadn't asked why Spoons and Goalie Croz had been assigned to Team Distractions, but he's sure not going to question it now, especially with the way they're both grinning. He's got a feeling that whatever's coming is going to be pretty awe-inspiring.

Backy looks around and decides on a direction; he might be basing it on something that Taylor can't see, or he might be just guessing. Taylor honestly can't tell which, and he's not sure it matters; he just follows Backy away from where the others have scattered to do their parts, waiting for some sort of cue.

"Here," Backy says about five minutes later. He looks at Spoons. "Are you ready?"

"Hell yeah, I'm ready," she says. "I was literally born ready for this."

Croz snorts. "For once, you're not exaggerating," she says, voice dry. She looks at the rest of them. "Cover your ears and don't look away from me until I nod."

"What's she gonna do?" Taylor asks, glancing at Spoons.

Spoons grins. "I'm gonna yell," she replies. "Cover your ears if you like hearing, Hallsy."

"Right," Taylor mutters, doing as he's told. Croz looks around at them, then gives a thumbs up.

Spoons smiles, then takes a deep breath and opens her mouth.

The thing is, Taylor can't hear _anything_. The sound had cut out when he'd put his hands over his ears; he has no idea what kind of power or magic or whatever could possibly make you stop hearing, but he's glad that Croz has it. He'd be deaf right now without it, based on the way his clothes are rippling at the sound waves coming from her mouth.

He didn't think to time it from the start, but Taylor's able to count to a little over 70 in his head before Croz nods at them. He looks over at Landy and Backy first, then cautiously lowers his own hands.

"Well," Landy says, and wow, Taylor missed sound for the minute or two where it was completely gone. "That should have gotten its attention."

"Here's hoping," Spoons says. "I mean, I can keep going, but if it's not gonna come after that, then I don't think I'll be much help. It's pretty much my only trick."

Croz pats her shoulder. "You have a good wrist shot, too," she says.

"Thanks," Spoons replies, laughing a little. She's looking around sharply, and suddenly she stands a little straighter and jerks her chin at something. "Hey, incoming, I think."

"All of you, follow my lead," Backy says. They all nod quickly, and then Backy completely stops pretending to be human.

"Follow his lead," Taylor mutters. "As if we can all just do _that_."

Landy snorts, but when Taylor glances over, he's all mystical-being-chic, too. "Just keep your sword pointed in the right direction," he says. "That should be enough."

"Will do," Taylor replies, pointing his sword at the quickly-approaching spot in the distance.

It's really, really terrible to look at, Taylor decides. Puck kind of looks like what would happen if someone dumped a skeleton, a stick bug, and a nightmare in a pot and then somehow made one cohesive creature out of whatever happened when they stirred. It's huge, though, at least twice as tall as Taylor himself, and he tries not to panic outwardly as he raises the sword a little higher to aim somewhere in the area of its chest.

"Well, well, well," Puck says, its voice sounding somehow like what's left after a fire, cracking and crumbling and still pretty dangerous. It looks at Backy, then Gabe, then Spoons, eyes lingering on each of them. It sweeps over Taylor like he's not even there for some reason, and then eyes Croz. "So you've finally decided to make your move. And there are so many of you; I feel… rather outnumbered."

It does something that Taylor figures is a smile, and then there's a high-pitched, awful shrieking laugh, and the ground seems to sprout little demon figures. They scatter before anyone can do anything about it, but nobody else moves, so Taylor stays put, too.

"You made a mistake," Backy says calmly. As Taylor watches, his fae form grows until he's standing level with Puck. "You should have stayed put after Edmonton. You won't be given another chance."

Puck sneers. "Ah, little fae prince. If you'd been any real threat to me, then I would have been banished long ago."

"I am enough for now," Backy says. He does something with his hands that Taylor can't follow, and Landy sucks in a breath and covers them all in thick purple smoke half a second before there's a huge crashing noise.

Taylor stays still; he's not sure he can fight his way through Landy's magic anyway, but he's even less sure that he's ready to see whatever Backy's doing. There's a crazy kind of light show that pops through the smoke, and then the sound and the light die down, and the smoke disappears as quickly as Landy had made it appear.

The first thing Taylor sees is that Backy and Puck are fighting. It's really strange to watch; they're not moving much, but bolts of light are flying back and forth between them, like the world's scariest fireworks display. He then notices that there's no noise coming from the fight. He glances at Croz, but she's staring, fascinated; Taylor looks back at the fight, and when he looks closer, he sees some kind of… bubble, maybe, he decides. It's all around where Puck and Backy are magic dueling, and nothing's coming out of it at all.

"Spread out," Landy says, standing stock still. "Someone right across from me on the other side of them, and the other two to the opposite points. Keep your eyes on them, and let me know if you see the force shield cracking or moving in any way."

Taylor glances at Spoons and Croz again. "I'll take across from him, you face each other?" he suggests.

"Sounds good," Spoons says.

They all move quickly into position. Taylor looks at his sword when he's standing across the fight from Landy; he might not need it now, but he feels better holding it than he would with it put away. It can't hurt, he decides, and switches it to his other hand so he can give his right arm a break.

He looks up at the fight and settles in.


	35. July: Mitch

Mitch is really, really glad that he's sticking with Dylan. What they're doing isn't exactly hard, but Dylan hasn't had any real-world experience with breaking, so it takes him a little longer to figure it out than it takes Mitch to break things. There's no frustration on his face, though, just a careful kind of determination that Mitch loves more than he can describe.

"Let's find some holds," Dylan says when the group starts splitting off. "Find the spell anchoring it to the Pepsi Center, shove magic in until it blows up, rinse, repeat. I want to put this plan into action."

Mitch smiles. "Okay," he says. "Let's look."

It doesn't take them long to find an area with several of them; Mitch breaks the first hold easily, but the second one he attacks is bigger, so it takes him a little while to find the crack in the spellwork, the place where he can shove his own magic in and tear it apart. He looks up and catches Dylan's glance, grinning when Dylan rolls his eyes and looks back down at the hold he's supposed to be breaking. His breaking is barely above passable even with all his practice, honestly, so Mitch glances around and starts jogging towards Dylan. He can help out, and then they can figure out where to look next and work on that.

He's just too far away to do anything when a small demon-looking thing, probably about three feet tall, materialises in front of Dylan. "Look out," he shouts, throwing his hand towards the thing, but he already knows he's too far, that his magic can't stretch—

Dylan looks up when Mitch shouts, but his magic is flooding into the hold that he's apparently just figured out how to break. He's not fast enough to pull it out and redirect it, and Mitch runs towards him, choking and stumbling, as the demon puts its hand on Dylan's forehead and shrieks.

"No," Mitch chokes out as Dylan crumples. "No, no—"

The demon thing laughs and disappears, and Mitch runs faster, pouring out every ounce of speed he can find to get to Dylan's side. He already knows he's too late, can feel something in him scream and wrench free, and he doubles over, gasping, as he feels Dylan—

"No," he says again, louder. Dylan hasn't moved since he hit the ground, but Mitch can feel him clawing, grasping at anything in the space they share between them, something that will keep him from going, from dying.

Something tugs at his wrist, and Mitch looks down to see the thread of Dylan's magic that he wears. It hasn't wavered once in the months since Dylan wrapped it there, but as Mitch watches now, the threads pull apart and the magic streams away from him, arcing through the air towards Dylan's body. Mitch doesn't even think about what he's doing as he reaches out, throwing his own magic out like Dylan uses his. The rope of Mitch's magic catches the end of Dylan's, and Mitch wraps it around his wrists and _pulls_ with everything he's got, physical and magical.

His whole world narrows down to the connection he's woven, sharp and bright. He's holding on with everything he's worth, and as he pulls inch by torturous inch, he can see Dylan in the distance.

"I think," Dylan calls, voice broken and hollow. "I think I'm dead, Mitch."

"Not yet," Mitch says fiercely. "You are not dead, Dylan. Get your ass over here."

Dylan raises his hand and stares at it, then looks away. Mitch doesn't have to follow his gaze to know he's staring at his own body on the ground. "Sweetheart..."

"Fuck that," Mitch grits out. "Do you hear me, Strome? _Fuck_ dying today. Get _back_ here."

"I don't know how," Dylan says, voice going distant. "I just… I don't know."

Mitch takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Do you trust me?"

Dylan's gaze sharpens as he focuses on Mitch. "Of course I trust you."

"Then come back," Mitch says, pleading. "Please, Dyls."

Dylan looks away again, back towards his body, and Mitch adjusts his grip on the magic. It makes Dylan gasp and look right back at him. "I feel that," he says, tone awed, touching the center of his chest. "Your magic."

"It's holding onto your magic right now," Mitch says. "Gonna have to wrestle me if you want it back."

It makes Dylan grin and take a step towards him. "Wrestle?"

"If you think I'm giving any part of you up without one hell of a fight," Mitch says steadily, pulling on the rope of magic, "then I'm gonna have to do a better job of convincing you that I love you."

Dylan stumbles a few steps closer. He's near his body now, but he doesn't look down at it. "I love you, too," he says, and he sounds stronger, more sure of himself.

"Good," Mitch says, taking a tentative step towards Dylan, then another. "I haven't doubted that in a long time, but it's still nice to hear it."

"I love you," Dylan repeats, holding his hand out. They're close enough for Mitch to reach out and take it, and they both gasp when he does.

It's a weird feeling; it's like they're holding hands through static, like maybe Dylan's a really convincing hologram instead of an actual person. A distant part of Mitch's brain notes that he now knows what it's like to hold hands with a ghost, but the rest of him firmly ignores that fact. "Now we just gotta get you back into your body," he says.

They both look down, and Mitch has to force himself to breathe evenly. Dylan looks like he's sleeping, except he'd never sleep like that, crumpled on the ground, head bent too far down, arm flung out. Mitch is intimately familiar with the way Dylan likes to wrap around him while they sleep, how his hand will find its way under Mitch's shirt to rest on his stomach, the way their heads knock together when they're settling in. This is unnatural, and Mitch wants to fix it immediately, but he's afraid to let go of Dylan's hand.

"Do you think I just…" Mitch looks up to see Dylan frowning down at his body. "Do I just climb back in?"

"Maybe?" Mitch hazards. He hadn't thought much beyond _don't go don't go don't go_. "Don't let go of me."

"I won't," Dylan promises. They crouch together, and Dylan lays back into his body as Mitch nudges him into a more natural position. Mitch grabs Dylan's cool hand when he lays his ghost hand into it, and then Dylan lets go of his other hand and settles completely in. They wait, but nothing happens.

"Maybe," Mitch says, closing his eyes.

"We'll figure it out," Dylan says immediately.

Mitch snorts. "No shit. Maybe I have to… put you there? Keep you there."

"How?" Dylan wonders.

"I think," Mitch says, summoning as much courage as he can find. He's still got Dylan's hand clutched in his own, and he squeezes it once before opening his eyes. "I'm gonna try something."

"I trust you," Dylan says.

It calms something in Mitch to hear it, even though it's not like it was ever in doubt. He nods once and focuses, thinking about roots and binding spells, about the way it had felt when Dylan tethered their magics together, about creating a space and putting something into it. He pushes as hard as he can with his magic, feeling the web of Dylan's magic appear right where he'd expect it to be, and he copies his memories of what Dylan had done as well as he can, tethering his magic into it and drawing some of Dylan's back into himself.

"Babe," Dylan says, sounding breathless. "I think… it feels like it's working." He pauses, then laughs a little. "I'm _freezing_."

"Squeeze my hand," Mitch says, concentrating on their magics, on the ebb and flow of his own, of the fabric of Dylan's absorbing as much of Mitch's as it can.

Dylan doesn't reply, but suddenly Mitch is hit with the feeling of being wrapped up tight, covered and blanketed and held. He inhales sharply, but before he can say anything, Dylan is disentangling their hands and cupping Mitch's face with both palms, pressing their mouths together again and again and again.

"Gods above," Mitch chokes out, falling against Dylan. "Oh my god." Now that it's over, he's shaking, can't control how he's curling into Dylan and taking hitching breaths. "I thought—"

"You saved me," Dylan says quietly. "I'm okay. I'm here." There's a pause, and he adds, "Although..."

Mitch head snaps up, and he blinks blurry tears away. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dylan says. "But I think everyone's gonna know." He holds out one hand, and Mitch watches as magic bubbles into his palm like Mitch's does, red and blue swirling together in equal measure. He makes a fist and snaps his wrist, and the water becomes a rope, their colors wound together. Mitch looks at his own hand as he calls on his magic, and it's exactly the same.

"This is…" Mitch says, mimicking Dylan's motion and watching as the water solidifies and becomes a cord. It wraps around his wrist just as the other one had, but when he pulls at it, it puddles back into his palm. "Honestly, I don't even know how to respond to this."

"We can figure out exactly how _Antony and Noemie_ we are later," Dylan says. "For now, we need to get back out there."

"No," Mitch says, instant and instinctive.

Dylan leans in and kisses him, brief and gentle. "We have to help," he says.

Mitch takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Be careful this time," he replies. He means to sound flippant, but he can hear how desperate he sounds, how his voice cracks a little.

"I will," Dylan promises. "And hey, we'll stick together, okay?"

"Okay," Mitch says. He takes another deep breath and nods. "Okay, let's do this."

He doesn't let go of Dylan's hand until he absolutely has to, but Dylan's not letting go, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: this is the very first scene i wrote for this story, and i wrote it before i wrote the entire noah/jeff story. :D?


	36. July: Connor

Connor plays with the coin that Hanny had handed him as they walk away from the opening that Backstrom had just casually torn in the fabric of reality, or whatever. He can see the magic in it; Hanny had said something about Cam Ward and protection charms, and Connor honestly does feel a little bit better for having it. Gretzky has one too, and Connor turns to see if he's holding it, or if Aly managed to get it into his pocket.

He almost stops dead in his tracks when he finds Gretzky in the crowd, because Gretzky's looking around with interest, with something like _himself_ in his eyes.

"Aly," Connor calls, not wanting to draw too much attention.

"Yeah," Aly says from Gretzky's other side. "I'm not sure what's going on here, Connor."

Nate slows and turns. "What? What's wrong?"

Everyone's stopped now, so Connor takes a cautious step towards Gretzky. "Mr. Gretzky?"

Gretzky turns and smiles. "Connor," he says. "I feel… I feel _good_ here. I feel better than I have in a long time."

"His soul," Ryan murmurs. He steps up next to Connor. "Do you know where we are? What we're doing here?"

Gretzky's gaze focuses on Ryan. "This is where that thing of Marty's lives," he says, voice more certain than Connor's ever heard. "I hope we're here to get back what's mine."

"We are," Kessel says firmly. "Well, we're here to kill it, and I don't think it'll be able to prevent us from getting it back once we do."

"Kill it," Gretzky repeats, smile appearing on his face. He looks around. "D'you think I can get a shot in?"

Sid clears his throat. "Actually, we've got a different job," he says, gesturing. "You, me, and Davo. We're gonna call a few friends, see if they can help us out."

"Looks like we've already got a bunch of friends here," Gretzky says, glancing around. "Forgive me, but I'm not sure who all of you are."

"We can do introductions later," Ryan says. "We don't exactly have a time limit or anything, but we do have a bunch of people distracting it while we do our part, so the sooner we get the summoning done…"

"Summoning," Gretzky repeats. He's frowning hard, like he's trying to remember something as it's trying to be forgotten. His face brightens after a few seconds. "Oh, the hockey gods. Well, that shouldn't be hard."

Someone coughs to cover up what Connor's pretty sure is a hysterical laugh. Connor shrugs a little. "You know how?"

"Well, sure," Gretzky says, focusing on him. "Don't tell me you came all this way without knowing what you were doing."

"Okay, we won't tell you that," Pou says agreeably. "Can you tell us, please?"

Gretzky rolls his eyes a little. "Kids," he says, not under his breath at all, and Connor can't imagine leaving here without Gretzky's soul. They're here to keep Puck from hurting anyone else, but this is one old hurt that they're going to have to undo.

He looks around a little, then turns to his right, orienting himself to something that Connor can't see at all. Before he can even blink, Gretzky waves his hand in the air. "Hey! Over here!"

Connor glances sidelong at Sid, whose mouth is hanging open in something that's probably astonishment. Connor can only imagine what his own face is doing, honestly, so he's not going to judge or anything. There's a sudden collective intake of breath, and Connor looks back at Gretzky to find out what he's missed.

At Gretzky and Gordie Howe, that is.

"Hey, Howie," Gretzky says, sticking out his hand. "How's the other side?"

"You know how long it's been since my joints popped?" Howe answers, grinning as he shakes Gretzky's hand. He looks like Connor remembers him: old, frail, a wisp of all the photos and videos of him in his prime, but there's a spark to him here, too. "It's got its perks, Gretz. I miss the family, but it's not so bad over here."

"Good, good," Gretzky replies, as if this isn't blowing the minds of every single other person here. "Look, we've got a bit of a problem. We were hoping you and yours could help us out."

Howe looks around at the group, then over the seemingly endless dripping rock formations around them. "This one's a real piece of work," he says, voice heavy. "I'll need backup."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," Gretzky says, smiling. "You've got friends around, don't you?"

"I'm sure I can rustle a few up," he says. He looks past Gretzky and scans the rest of the group. "Don't do anything," he says, ominous as any coach Connor's ever had, and then he turns and walks in the opposite direction. He sort of fades out as he goes, and Connor's not sure if he gets too far away to see, or if he just goes fully see-through.

"Uh," Sid says after a moment in which nobody makes a sound. "Did you just… how did you do that?"

Gretzky shrugs a little. "You'll get there," he replies. He nods at Connor. "You will, too."

Connor swallows hard. "How do you do it?"

"You call," Gretzky says simply. "They listen to people sometimes. Sometimes, they listen to certain people more."

"That's what Wicks said," Nate murmurs. He sounds like he might be in shock. "Holy shit."

"Heads up," Chuey says, and everyone turns pretty much as one to look back at where Howe had disappeared.

He's walking back towards them, leading a group of who Connor can only assume are other players who have passed on. It dawns on him as they all draw closer that he recognises all of them: Howe, of course, but there's Bill Barilko and Milt Schmidt, Tim Horton, Roy Conacher, Georges freaking Vezina. It's like a combination of his childhood hockey card collection and a Who's Who of recently deceased players, and it's one of the coolest and yet most terrifying things that Connor has ever seen.

"Gord says that thing's here," Horton says. It's funny, Connor thinks through the hysteria threatening to bubble over. People think of Horton as a Leaf, mostly, or a Sabre, but he's wearing a Rangers sweater like he did for a couple years towards the end. They're all wearing sweaters, Connor realises suddenly; a Leaf, a Bruin, a Red Wing. A Hawk and a Hab. Horton, standing there with the Rangers logo stitched across his chest. Six players, original six teams. Left wing, centre, right wing. Two defensemen. A goalie.

"Oh my god," Connor breathes out as it hits him. "You're—are you actually going to—"

Schmidt turns and winks at him, and Connor remembers standing awkwardly in silence earlier this year in remembrance. It's jarring to see him smile now, though how any one thing registers as jarring in this moment, Connor couldn't say. "You called the hockey gods, kid. What did you think was gonna happen, an arm wrestling match?"

"You're gonna play for it," Skinner blurts out, sounding a little dazed. "All this time we've been preparing for a fight, but it's… you're going to play hockey."

"We're going to play hockey," Howe confirms. He smiles fiercely, and Connor imagines seeing it on the ice, unnerving across the faceoff circle. "We're gonna play one hell of a game, which is appropriate, given the opponents."

"And we're going to win," Barilko adds, almost offhandedly. "We'll take that thing apart, and you then you can stop worrying about it."

"Good," Connor says, laughing a little nervously. "And, uh. It has… it has Gretzky's soul."

Vezina snorts. "We will save it," he says, voice somehow lighter than Connor was expecting. "We know what we are doing, godling."

Connor can't do much more than gape, honestly, even when Ryan nudges him and whispers _godling_. "Oh," he finally manages, and Ryan huffs a laugh beside him.

Conacher's been looking around the whole time, but he turns back to Howe and nods a little. "Looks like it's not bound here anymore," he says. "They did their part. I think it's time we do ours."

"Well," Howe says, the years suddenly sliding off him until he's standing there in his prime, flying wheel proudly displayed on his sweater. "Let's get going, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're not familiar with the former players who are now our hockey gods of the day, here are their wikipedia articles (which i highly recommend reading at least the blurb of):  
> [bill barilko](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Barilko) (defense, leafs)  
> [tim horton](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tim_Horton) (defense, rangers)  
> [gordie howe](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gordie_Howe) (right wing, red wings)  
> [milt schmidt](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milt_Schmidt) (centre, bruins)  
> [roy conacher](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Conacher) (left wing, black hawks)  
> [georges vezina](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georges_V%C3%A9zina) (hab, goalie)


	37. July: Jo

_"Hey, everybody listen up!"_

Jo freezes, glancing at Ovi.

"Wow," Ovi says, clearly impressed as he scans the sky. "Spoons _very_ loud. I thought she can just yell, but those real words!"

"How," Jo starts, then shakes his head. It's hardly the weirdest thing he's experienced today, and he has the feeling he's gonna see more stuff to challenge that before they're back to the dimension he knows. He glances up at the sky instead. "Can we answer her?"

"Not unless you that loud, too," Ovi says, shrugging. "I guess we listen and—"

 _"We've got our special friends,"_ Spoons' voice echoes. _"Everyone get back over here. Shit's about to get super extra real."_

"Super extra real," Ovi repeats, looking solemnly at Jo. "Sounds serious."

Jo snorts. "The hockey gods are there," he says. "It worked."

"Why they need us?" Ovi wonders as they head in the direction that Spoons and her group had run off in.

"We're done with the breaking part," Jo points out. "Maybe they just want to gather the troops in case something happens." He doesn't want to fill in the blanks, but his brain is helpfully painting scenario after awful scenario. He's suddenly itching to get to Nate's side; Spoons hadn't sounded worried, so probably everything's fine. Still, though, he walks a little faster.

"Maybe we get to watch them fight," Ovi says. His voice is a mixture of awed and eager. "Who you think we gonna see?"

"The hockey gods?" Jo says, frowning. "Who else would we see?"

Ovi laughs a little. "You not know a lot about hockey gods, do you?"

"No," Jo says, frowning a little more. "What am I missing?"

"They old players," Ovi says simply. "Important guys. His first year in League, Burky say he saw Rocket Richard. I tell him it's just me, but he really sure."

"Rocket Richard," Jo echoes. "Holy shit."

"Everyone say they see different people," Ovi goes on. "Nicky see Jean Beliveau the night he pass. Greenie always say he see Sid Abel, and now he a Red Wing." He grins. "I say, not very fair to steal my friends away, but he a god. I just Alex Ovechkin."

"If they're all former star players, you'll be one," Jo says without really thinking about it.

Ovi's smile softens, then goes brilliant and wide. "That's the nicest thing anybody ever say to me," he says. "You tell Sid, yes? Everyone always telling him he's gonna be one. Be nice to hear someone say it to someone else for once."

Jo laughs. "Sure," he promises. "Remind me when this is all over."

"I hold you to that," Ovi says as they approach the group. Jo automatically searches for Nate; he's not hard to find even in a gaggle of hockey players, and Jo heads for him.

"Hey," he says, bumping Nate's side. "That was quick."

"Gretzky literally just yelled 'hey' into the void, and bam," Nate says, waving his hand at a group of people a few meters away. "Oh, and by the way, he's a person in here. Nuge thinks it's because he's so close to his soul."

Jo shivers a little. "Who did we get?"

Nate fills him in, and as he names each player, Jo can pick them out in the group. He's not sure how he does it; most of them don't look like he remembers them looking, whether it's because Schmidt has lost about 75 years since Jo's last memory of him or because Vezina looks way less scrawny than any of the grainy photos of him Jo's ever seen. They're dressed for hockey, too, in jerseys and pants and pads. They even have helmets, even though Jo's pretty sure none of them actually wore one in real life.

"So they're going to play," Jo says, eyeing them as they stretch. "Does Puck know that?"

"Not yet," Nate says. "Or, like. I don't think so. Spoons and Goalie Croz are back with the rest of us, but Backy and Gabe and Hallsy are keeping it busy while the gods get everything set up."

"Huh," Jo says. "I have to tell you, this is not how I imagined this going."

Nate laughs. "Oh man, me neither," he says. "This is surreal, even for… this."

"Eloquent," Jo says dryly. "Is there going to be—"

He stops, because he was about to ask where they'd play, but suddenly there's a gorgeous, glistening rink in the middle of the rocky outcroppings. There are bleachers on both sides, and as Jo watches, they start filling up.

"Who," someone says, and someone else shushes them.

"Well, I'll be," comes a voice that Jo would know anywhere, even though its owner passed away a decade before Jo was born. He gapes as Foster Hewitt walks past, straightening his tie. "You fellas need someone to call this game? I sure would love the chance."

"Sure thing, Huey," Howe replies. "They sing the anthem before games now. Do we have an anthem singer?"

Stan Rogers materializes out of nothing, and Jo grips hard at Nate's arm. "I'll do the honors." He pauses. "What do you want me to sing for the other team?"

Schmidt grins. "How about 'The Idiot?'" he quips, and Rogers throws his head back and laughs.

The other people in the stands are an equally impressive bunch; some of them are former players, while others are actors, politicians, singers. There's room enough for the living contingent to sit, but pretty much every other available seat is filled.

"This is," Nate breathes as they settle into their seats. The gods are skating on the ice, loosening up, passing the puck back and forth.

"This is _awesome_ ," Stromer declares from Nate's other side. "I mean, terrifying and kind of weird? But this is absolutely incredible. We're gonna get to see them play."

"Nerd," Marns says from Stromer's other side. "Quick question: how many different stats do you know for each of those guys?"

"Not a lot for Vezina," Stromer says, and he sounds a little sad about it. "He was, like. He's older than stats, really."

"Older than stats," Nate echoes. "That's absolutely incredible."

As they watch, the gods wind their practice down and confer around the net. They're way too far away to hear what's going on, but the gods are pointing out over the arena into the distance. There's a faint glow coming from where they're pointing; Jo realises that it must be Puck and whatever's going on with the whole distraction thing. Barilko nods and skates a little way away, and then winks out of existence between one stride and the next.

"Right," Bolden says blankly. "Okay. That's… okay."

"Totally normal," Kessel agrees. "It's— _holy shit_!"

Jo can't do anything but agree as Gabe and Hallsy pop into being a few feet away. Hallsy, for some reason, is holding a flaming sword about level with Gabe's head. He looks around, then lowers it slowly, grin spreading over his face. "Hey, guys," he says. "How's it going?"

"How did you do that?" Ebs demands, standing up a few rows down from Jo. "You couldn't do that more than, like, a foot before we came in here!"

"He could do that before at all?" Nuge exclaims. "I feel like I'm being left out of the gossip circle, you guys. Not cool."

Hallsy laughs, and his sword vanishes. "I've got mad skills, Nuge."

"How'd it go?" Hanny asks. "I mean, we all got our shit done, so I'm assuming it was fine."

"It was fine," Gabe agrees. "Nicke's wrapping things up, but he should be here—"

Backstrom pops into view two meters to Gabe's right.

"—cool, right on time," Gabe says. "Which means: hold onto your seats, everyone. We're about to see… something."

"We sure are," Davo agrees. "Look. They're coming."

Jo looks up to see a ball of… he'd say fire, but it's not quite that; it's not electricity, either. It's definitely heading their way, though, streaking through the air towards the arena.

"What the fuck," Pou says flatly. Jo agrees wholeheartedly.

It arrives on the untouched part of the ice, scattering rocks and dirt and debris everywhere. Puck stalks out of the wreckage, ice melting in its wake as it advances on Howe, who's waiting at centre ice.

"Gods," Puck spits as it halts a few feet away, bending down to look Howe in the eyes. Some of the small demons that have been running around scatter behind it, shrieking and chattering in a language Jo has no desire to understand. "Leave this place."

Howe laughs a little, smiling without humor as he waves his hand and the ice shines like new. "I think that's my line, demon."

"This place is mine," Puck howls, loud enough that it reverberates, sending sound waves through Jo and beyond. He scrambles for Nate's hand, clutching it tightly without looking away. "It was given to me!"

"But you have things that aren't yours," Howe says calmly. "And you're free to take this place and go, but you're not welcome to stay where you are on the human plane. That was given under false pretences; you cannot give what isn't yours in the first place, and that's what was done."

"No," Puck snarls. "No, I will not—" It stops and cocks its head, all bony angles and too-long limbs, and then it laughs, triumphant. " _Gary Bettman,_ " it calls. "Come to me. Come now."

Jo whips his head around to stare at Backstrom, whose face has gone pale. "There's nothing I can do," he says, helpless. "He was hidden, but he's… he won't be able to resist a direct call like that."

"Fuck," Sid says, leaning forward. "He's… shit."

They're not that far from where they left Bettman, not really; Jo's not sure this place actually obeys the laws of physics anyway, so for all he knows Puck could be bending it to his will, but Bettman's already within view. He doesn't look great, honestly, but Jo imagines that if he'd had Bettman's day, he'd be worse for the wear, too.

"Gary Bettman," Puck says as he stumbles onto the ice. "Tell these gods what you gave me. Tell them!"

"I agreed," Bettman starts, voice thin, wavering. He stops and coughs, then looks back at Howe. "I agreed to host Puck in the Pepsi Center for two years, then help it move around. I gave it that real estate."

Howe looks at Bettman impassively. "Do you own the Pepsi Center?"

Bettman stares a little. "Do I what?"

"Do you own the place you sacrificed?" Howe asks patiently. "You can't grant permission for anything if permission isn't yours to grant."

"No," Bettman says. "But as Commissioner—"

"That doesn't give you the rights to the space," Barilko cuts in, eyes flashing with something that's entirely inhuman. There's something moving up his legs—or, no, Jo realises with shock. There are vines _growing_ up his legs. "D'you want to hear my story about what happens when you intrude somewhere that you don't have the right to be in? It involves eleven years on the floor of a forest."

"No, that's," Bettman says, swallowing harshly. "Being Commissioner—"

"Nope," Horton says. "You're gonna need a different song and dance there."

"Gary Bettman," Puck thunders. " _Tell them!_ "

"I told Puck it could stay," Bettman says, sounding desperate. "I told it this wouldn't happen again."

"Well," Howe says, glancing at Schmidt, then at Conacher. "Well then."

"That is not good news for you, my friend," Vezina singsongs from where he's still parked in the crease. They're all where they'd be for a faceoff; Jo wonders if it's intentional or if it's hockey players being hockey players. "We will play. Winner takes all."

"You have a team," Puck hisses. "Am I to choose from amongst the gathered?"

Nate squeezes Jo's hand painfully tightly, but Howe snorts inelegantly. "We chose from our own. You can do the same."

That makes Puck straighten and smile, skin stretching over its face and pulling in new and terrifying ways that Jo doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. It gestures sharply to the right, opening its hand and flexing its fingers, and there's a horrible screeching noise as some of the little demons collapse, fold in on themselves, and spring back up, larger and more fully-formed.

"My own," Puck says, laughing. It leans in, looking at Howe straight on again. "Name your terms, god."

"We play," Howe says evenly. "Three periods, as is custom. If there's a draw, then we continue play until the tie is broken and no further. The winner chooses the fate of the loser and takes control of that which the loser had controlled."

"Rules?" Puck asks.

"As the current players are used to playing," Howe says. "With, of course, injury exceptions."

"What the fuck is an injury exception?" Stromer whispers, clearly bewildered.

Puck whips its head towards the crowd, and Jo feels every hair on his neck stand up as it focuses on Stromer. It smiles, then reaches out and absolutely _annihilates_ the nearest demon to it. The demon screams, but even as it's doing so, its body is reforming, reshaping itself until it's standing as it had been, silent and waiting.

"Those who cannot be injured need not worry about injury," Puck says. "Ask more of me, one who binds. I will give you whatever you want." It smiles, sharp teeth glinting in the sourceless light of this place. "For a price."

"Stop that," Howe says, sounding, almost hilariously, like a scolding dad. "You'll make no deals here today, demon."

Puck turns back to Howe. "Are these your full and complete terms?"

"No magic," Howe says. "Nothing that's outside either of our natures."

"So we can heal, which is normal for us, but we can't pour on extra speed or stretch out super long to block a shot or teleport," Conacher says before Puck can. "Which is in line with how the current rules stand."

"Are _these_ your full and complete terms?" Puck asks again.

"They are," Howe says.

"I accept," Puck says. "Now, we play."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> foster hewitt is the announcer they named the hockey broadcaster of the year award after. [his voice is pretty iconic.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ti26XrLiF0U)
> 
> stan rogers is a canadian folk singer. pretty much all of his songs are about the canadian experience. i can talk about him for hours upon hours, as he is one of my top three artists of all time. "[the idiot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMfwxWA14zo)" is a song that he wrote, though the lyrics aren't actually applicable to the situation; it was just too perfect an opportunity to pass on. if you only listen to one of his songs, though, make it "[flying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ylt_c7LSqeE)," as that is a song about hockey.


	38. July: Jeff

They don't play.

Or, well, Jeff knows they're getting around to it; each team pulls back to their own side and skates around. The demons seem to be ridiculously gifted; by all means, anything built like they are shouldn't be able to function on skates, but none of them stumble even once. Jeff wishes learning to skate had been that easy for him, too.

He's sitting between Noah and Yakupov; they're talking over his head about defensive strategies off a faceoff in the neutral zone, and while normally Jeff would be all about listening in on that, he can't look away from the ice. Bettman's still out there, standing against the boards on the gods' blue line, eyes darting pretty much everywhere all at the same time. Jeff honestly can't find it within himself to feel bad for the guy; he'd made his bed, and he'd made everyone else lie in it for a really long time. It's not that Jeff super believes in the whole "eye for an eye" thing, but Bettman's very probably getting what's coming to him.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Foster Hewitt's voice comes from everywhere at once. Jeff's instantly reminded of old Hockey Night in Canada clips; his voice is absolutely iconic, and he shivers hearing it now. "Everyone here knows the teams present and what's represented, so I won't waste our time by going over it again. I'm serving as your play-by-play, your color, your referees, and your linesmen for today's match-up, so please bear with me as I switch hats."

"This is so surreal," Wicks says from somewhere behind Jeff. "Everything about this is just…"

"Surreal's not strong enough," Chuey says. "This is…"

"Surreal," Wicks repeats wryly when Chuey can't finish the thought. "Let me know when you come up with a better word, I'm begging you."

"Please rise and remove your hats for the singing of the Canadian national anthem," Hewitt intones, and Jeff does so on autopilot. There's an emotion he can't place welling up in his chest as Stan Rogers walks confidently out to centre ice and sings, voice echoing as if they were in an actual arena instead of a rink in the middle of hell. _Surreal,_ Jeff's mind supplies, and he's gonna have to agree with Chuey and Wicks on this one. It's definitely not strong enough a word, but it'll do for now.

Bettman finally scrambles off the ice when Rogers finishes, disappearing on the other side of the rink. Jeff doesn't think he'll actually get very far, especially since he turns around to look and sees Backy's eyes following him. He turns back around to focus on the ice; he doesn't actually need to see, to know.

Jeff expects the game to start pretty quickly after that; Howe and Puck come together at centre ice, but their heads bend towards each other and they freeze. He glances around after a few seconds, but pretty much everyone looks as mystified as Jeff feels.

"Oh," Yakupov breathes out. "They need the formalities. They need…"

He scrambles up before Jeff can do or say anything, and he makes his way to the end of the row and down to the ice in record time. He glances around, then shoves his way through the penalty box door and onto the ice.

"And here to drop our ceremonial puck tonight is Nail Yakupov, representative of the Colorado Avalanche," Hewitt says smoothly, and Jeff gapes.

"Holy shit," Hallsy says, sounding unsteady. "Yak…"

Yakupov doesn't miss a stride; he walks to centre ice and leans down to pick up the puck. He looks at Howe, then at Puck, and Jeff's heard plenty about how rightfully afraid Yakupov is of Puck, but there's no trace of that fear now. He leans in, takes a deep breath, and drops the puck, and Howe bats it towards his skates.

Howe leans over to pick it up and then straightens, meeting Yakupov's eyes. Jeff can't hear what he says, but when he hands Yakupov the puck, it's glowing brightly. He reaches out to shake Yakupov's hand, and Jeff's chest seizes. _The formalities,_ Yakupov had said, and Jeff stares as he turns and offers his hand to Puck.

Puck looks at him curiously for a long moment, then takes Yakupov's hand. It says something, too, and Howe goes tense, but he doesn't move. Yakupov nods without saying anything, then turns and walks back towards the penalty box he'd entered through, making his way back to his seat.

"What the _absolute living fuck_ ," Gabe says as Yakupov sits back down. "Yak, that _did not_ have to be you, what the—"

"It did," Yakupov says, voice shaking. "There is that saying, face your demons—"

"Not _literally_ ," Ebs hisses. "Yak, remember, we _talked_ about turns of phrase and weird English expressions!"

"It said I had earned its respect," Yakupov says, voice faint. "And that I had nothing to fear from it."

"Demon," Noah immediately chimes. "You can't—"

"You can," Backy interjects, voice a little wondering. "Demons don't—they're not known for granting boons, but things freely given are things dearly held. Its word will be kept."

Everyone's quiet as they let that information settle. Jeff isn't all that shocked when Hallsy's the one to break it. "What did Howe say?"

"To keep the puck with me, and I'd be able to find my way," Yakupov replies. "I'm not sure what that means."

"It means keep the puck with you," Aly says firmly. "At all times, Nail. You might want to think about making yourself a belt for it or something."

Yakupov nods, opening his mouth again, but they all jerk when someone knocks on the glass. It's Hewitt, giving them a television-worthy smile. "All set, folks?"

"Yes," Ovi says, quick as anything. "Time for hockey."

Hewitt smiles and skates backwards, executing a stop at centre ice that he'd never done in life. He leans down and grabs a puck that Jeff hadn't seen appear there, then looks into the audience.

"And the puck is dropped," he says, doing so and skating backwards, and then the game is finally on.

Jeff has heard plenty of games described as fights before, but he's never going to buy it again, not with the way the game unfolds in front of him. Every faceoff is a battle that Jeff isn't sure he'd survive; every race up and down the ice makes his lungs burn, and he's not even on the ice. The hits are brutal, and the way everyone involved singlemindedly chases down the puck is fearless.

It's inspiring, at least a little; Jeff is always looking to improve his own game, and some of the things he's seeing he can definitely try to incorporate. Most of it, though, is too much—too fast, too agile, too hard-hitting. Boarding is legal in this game; Jeff supposes that he wouldn't mind it, either, if he couldn't get hurt by it.

Or if he wouldn't _stay_ hurt, he realises, recoiling as one of the demons brings its stick down full-speed on Conacher's arms. Conacher drops his stick when his fingers go limp from the breaks, but he just glares and very literally shakes it off. It brings the first whistle of the game, which startles Jeff. From the way Noah jumps, he's not the only one.

"Two minutes for interference," Hewitt says calmly, pointing at the demon and the penalty box.

"Interference," Nuge repeats weakly as the demon snarls and skates over. "He almost chops someone's hands off, and it's…"

"Injury exception," Davo says after a moment. "He kept Conacher from playing the puck. That's interference."

Jeff lets out a breath, trying not to shiver. "I'm really, really hoping there are no fights in this game."

"No kidding," Marns agrees fervently. "I don't even want to think about watching that."

The thing about the power play is that unless you get the right combination of players on the ice, it's not actually much easier to score than it is five-on-five. It's easier to keep possession, sure, and that tends to lead to an increase in scoring chances, but taking one of the opposing team's players off the ice doesn't actually mean it's all tap-in goals into empty cages. It's not less true when it's gods against demons, and even though Jeff isn't exactly holding his breath, he's still disappointed when the clock ticks down with four shots on goal but none that come close to going in.

"Damn," Gretzky mutters from somewhere behind Jeff. "They've got the speed and the skill, but so do the bad guys."

"So it's going to come down to the goalies?" Masch asks. "Typical."

"Well, they did say—" Jeff says, but he's cut off when one of the demons takes the most perfect shot he's ever seen. Vezina puts his blocker up, quick but somehow casual, and everything's great until one of the other demons grabs the rebound and slips is past Vezina's elbow before it has time to come down.

"Demon goal," Hewitt says calmly, voice echoing in the dead silence from around the rink. "That's 1-0 demons, eight minutes, forty-three seconds into the first period."

"Shit," Kessel whispers. "Shit, they're _good_."

Jeff can only nod, even though she probably wasn't speaking to him and probably isn't looking at him now. It's the first time he's actually realised that the gods have the chance to _lose_ this game, and it's absolutely terrifying to contemplate.

The rest of the first plays out at the same breakneck speed and brutal level of contact, and when the horn sounds to signal the end of the period, it's still 1-0. "There will be a ten-minute strategy break," Hewitt announces as the gods skate off the ice, looking anything but defeated. It looks like there might actually be fire glowing in Horton's eyes, from what Jeff can see.

"Ten minutes," Backstrom repeats. "I suppose if they never get tired…"

"That would be nice," Ovi says. "Why you can't make us never get tired, Nicky?"

"Because I'm not a god," Backstrom says, and it feels a little like a well-worn argument. Jeff turns around so he can watch. "And you're part bear. Sleeping comes naturally to you."

Gabe snorts. "He's got a point."

"You always on his side," Ovi says, sniffing. "Your opinion doesn't count."

"Sorry, I'm with them too," Stromer pipes up. "Bears love sleeping, man. That's just a fact."

Ovi gasps, putting a hand over his heart. "And here I think you on _my_ side, little Coyote."

"Nah, he's on mine," Marns says breezily, leaning into Stromer. They link hands without either of them having to look, and Jeff's a little envious of their brain-share, if he's being honest with himself. He steals a glance at Noah, then quickly looks back. It seems… nice, is all.

Backstrom suddenly leans really, really far forward, right into Marns' space. "What did you _do_?" he asks, sounding almost fascinated.

Both of them go completely pale, and their cute hand-holding moment looks like it's turning into a death grip competition. "Uh," Marns says. "It's… kind of a long, terrible story?"

"The short version, though," Stromer says. He holds his hand out cupping it, and Jeff watches as magic pools there like water. Marns holds his hand under it, and Stromer casually pours liquid red and blue from his palm into Marns'. Marns flattens his hand and the magic solidifies, stretches into a rope, and then nestles itself around his wrist.

"Okay," Nuge says after a moment. "Okay, we're definitely getting the long version later. What the _fuck_ , you guys."

Taylor Crosby laughs, bright and clear. "You have the thing," she says, and before anyone can ask, she whistles sharply. A bolt of red and yellow light springs from Kessel's hand, flying through the air and circling around Taylor's head before fading into her hair. "Except it looks like yours is a lot more blended than ours."

There's a moment of complete and utter silence until Nate blurts out, "What the fuck!"

"Okay, we need to talk," Marns says, staring at Taylor like the rest of them are staring at him. "Like, obviously later, but: talking. Holy shit. We thought—"

" _Antony and Noemie_ ," Kessel says. "We thought we were the only ones, too."

"Gods above," Sid says faintly. "And, like, gods here, I guess. What the hell, Taylor?"

"You're not the special-est Crosby anymore," Taylor singsongs, and Jeff huffs out a laugh.

"And here I thought we were answering all the questions today," Stromer says. "As it turns out: nope! We're just trading the old ones in for new ones."

"That's life, or something," Gabe says. "If anyone needs to stretch, do it now. They're going to resume play soon."

It gets everyone's attention; Jeff climbs to his feet and reaches for the ceiling, then rolls his shoulders. He can't wait to see how this plays out, but at the same time, he's terrified to see just that.


	39. July: Ryan

The second period starts with little fanfare; Hewitt skates out, Schmidt and Puck line up at centre ice, and Hewitt drops the puck.

The back-and-forth is incredible; Ryan has seen more than his fair share of hockey games in his lifetime, but this is on a whole new level that he never even thought to imagine. It's fast, it's skilled, it's hard-hitting on a level that has everyone wincing even though they all know that injuries won't actually happen here. It doesn't stop the players from trying; Barilko takes a tripping call three minutes in after chopping at a demon's legs, and a demon takes one right after, cleaving its stick down on Barilko's shoulder as he's exiting the penalty box. Barilko goes down in a heap, and the demon skates for the box before the echo of the whistle fades.

"I bet you wish you'd chosen me for the team now," someone calls from the stands, and Howe turns and very clearly rolls his eyes. Ryan glances over and nearly falls out of his seat when he recognises Jean Beliveau grinning at the ice.

"Why would I wish that?" Howe calls back, and then the puck is dropped. Schmidt wins it cleanly back, and Barilko takes it and skates to the left, whirling around one of the demons in a move that Ryan's only seen Connor execute before. He comes out low and sends a no-look pass to his right, and Howe hits it with one of the hardest one-timers that Ryan's ever seen, sending it sailing neatly over the demon goaltender's shoulder.

"Yes," Ryan yells, jumping to his feet and punching his fist in the air. It's more than he ever celebrates any of his own goals, but then, this one's more important than any he's put in the back of the net. Everyone else is doing the same, pretty much. It's really something to see Gretzky letting loose and cheering wildly.

"Gods goal, Gordie Howe," Hewitt says. "Tie game, five minutes, fifty-four seconds into the second period."

Howe skates over and points at Beliveau. "I had more power play goals than you ever did," he says, grinning. "Stay in your seat, old man."

"Rich words," Beliveau replies. "Show me a win, and then maybe I'll stay."

"Keep watching," Howe promises, skating back to line up at centre ice.

The penalties start ramping up; Ryan wishes he could say he stopped feeling sick every time someone aimed a slash at the knees or the fingers, but he'd be lying. Both goalies stay solid in net, though, and the second ends with a tie. Hewitt announces another ten-minute break, and most of the people in the crowd stand up and mill around, Ryan's group and the gods' contingent alike.

"I was just thinking that it's kind of weird that there's no mini mites team playing during intermission," Connor says as he stretches, arms raised above his head. "But that would actually be really terrible in this situation, right?"

Ryan nods. "Yeah, we don't need tiny hockey gods," he says. "That would just be… yeah, no."

"Someone should sing," Yak says, drifting over towards them. "Where is the man who sang the anthem? He has more songs, yes?"

"Yeah, he does," Ryan says with feeling. "He's kind of a big deal, actually."

"We can ask," Connor suggests.

There's a cough from behind them, and when Ryan turns, he finds himself blinking a few times. The man in front of them is wearing an obnoxious Canada-themed shirt and a black cowboy hat, and he's holding a guitar. "I'd be happy to oblige, if'n you all wanted a song," he says.

"You're," Connor says, smile spreading rapidly across his face. "I mean, yes, please. Sir."

The man chuckles. He looks familiar, but Ryan can't place him until he starts singing "The Hockey Song," complete with guitar and foot-tapping for accompaniment.

"I know this one!" Yak says, face lighting up. He joins Stompin' Tom Connors on the chorus, and Ryan smiles, wishing he had his phone so he could record the moment. They'd decided to leave all the technology behind, though; there was no way to know if it would work here, and Ryan sincerely doubts that AppleCare would cover demonic damages.

Connors sweeps his hat from his head when he finishes, bowing with it held over his heart as the guys gathered around him clap. "Thanks, folks," he says, beaming at them. "Now, then, let's see this game through!"

It's a little corny, but pretty much everyone cheers anyway as they head back to their seats. There's definite murmuring in the crowd as the players take the ice again, and not all of it is from the human group; someone in an immaculate suit and tie nudges Rocket Richard with his elbow, pointing at the ice and sketching something out with his hands as the players congregate around their goalies before skating to centre ice. Ryan doesn't know who it is, but it doesn't really matter; he gets the feeling, and he'd take any chance to talk to Rocket Richard about hockey, too.

The third feels longer than the rest of the game had; there are far fewer penalties, but both defenses have really taken it to a new level. There's a lot of back-and-forth play, more backchecking than Ryan's seen in a single game before, and zero scoring. There are a few tense moments on both sides, but Vezina and the demon in net are both in top form, and nothing gets in.

Ryan has no idea how he's going to survive overtime; it's been a stressful period, and he can't imagine it's going to be any better when they're playing sudden death. It's worse than any situation Ryan's ever played through, which seems obvious until Ryan remembers exactly how bad the Oilers had been before they'd gotten rid of Puck the first time. 

Overtime starts with Conacher at centre; he loses the draw, but Horton puts on a burst of speed and very nearly tackles the demon at right wing. He turns at the last second and delivers a crushing hip check instead, swiping the puck to Schmidt, who passes it through Puck's legs to a perfectly-positioned Howe. He turns and taps it to Barilko, who's skating like mad towards the blue line, and before the demons can recover, he's shooting the puck hard.

Ryan isn't sure he's breathing; it's like time is slowing down in front of him, he thinks dazedly, watching as Puck breaks the rules of the game, teleporting to just _put_ its body in the way of the puck; as Horton, who had started speeding up the ice as soon as he'd made the pass, slams into Puck with all the built-up speed he's got going; as they both go tumbling out of the way.

As the goalie jumps as if it's going to be hit, instinct replacing intellect, and the puck flies in, hitting the back of the net and falling to the ice.

"Gods goal, Bill Barilko," Hewitt shouts. "That's 2-1 folks, and that's the game!"

"They did it," Gretzky says, just loud enough to be heard.

"They _did it_ ," Wicks repeats, louder, more emphatic. "Gods win! We win!"

Ryan was less emotionally wrung out after they lost to the Ducks, he's pretty sure, but he's smiling like he'll never stop. Everyone he turns to is smiling right back at him, relief and joy mixing in the air.

"And now," Hewitt says, and Ryan turns to look at the ice. He's standing at centre ice, somber look on his face. "To the victor go the spoils."

Puck is standing at centre ice, head held high as it glares down at Howe. "So you have won your game," it snarls. "You control what I once controlled."

Connor grabs Ryan's hand hard as Puck plunges a hand into its own chest. There's no blood or gore or anything; it comes out holding something that glistens in the light, pulsing gently. It throws the glittering thing to the ice at Howe's feet, and Howe stoops to pick it up, handling it gently as he brings it to eye level.

"Go," he says clearly, and the thing splits into a bunch of smaller balls of light, flying in every direction all at once.

One of the bigger balls floats gently over the boards, travelling over the first few rows. It slows further about midway up the stands, and Ryan turns just in time to see Gretzky stand up, smiling up at it.

"Oh, hi," he says, reaching a hand out to the light. It bobs gently just out of his reach, then floats down. As it does, it gets thinner, taller; it seems to grow arms and legs, and by the time it touches down, Gretzky is face-to-face with a shining reflection of himself.

"Hi," the reflection—Gretzky's _soul_ —says, and then it takes a step forward and Gretzky gasps and closes his eyes as it seems to dissolve into him.

"Wayne," Wicks says, and Ryan blinks and realises she's standing a few feet from Gretzky, hand outstretched. "Are you okay?"

"Oh," Gretzky says, opening his eyes. There's something in them that Ryan's never seen there before—a sense of self, maybe, or a sense of anything other than hockey. "Oh, Hayley."

Wicks breaks into a smile and quickly walks over, enveloping him in a hug. "Good to see you, old man," she says, and Ryan turns away quickly. He's not sure they mean for everyone to see them right now.

"And the other part of the deal," Hewitt says, voice impassive, and Ryan turns back around.

Puck's still at centre ice; the other demons are clustered behind it, and as Ryan watches, Puck reaches back and shoves one of them hard. It goes flying into the others, and there's a half-second of a shrieking, keening mess before they disappear. There's no pop, no flash of light or tearing noise; they're simply there, and then they're not.

"Gary Bettman," Puck calls, and Bettman stumbles onto the ice a second later, slipping his way to stand between Puck and Howe. he's shaking and sweating; Ryan's heart leaps into his throat as he realises what Puck's about to do, but there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"What's this, now?" Howe asks. He doesn't so much as glance at Bettman.

"The winner holds dominion over the loser's fate," Puck says, triumph clear in its voice. "You want to do away with me? You hold the power. But know, god, that this one has tied his fate to my own. If you kill me, you also take life from this one called Gary Bettman."

Howe shrugs, seemingly unconcerned, as the rest of the gods form a loose half-circle around him. "So be it," he says, holding his hand to Bettman and Puck, palm facing them, fingers close together. The rest of the gods take the same pose, and when Howe emits a single low-pitched note, light erupts from their palms, hitting Bettman back into Puck and then enveloping them both.

There's definitely noise this time; Ryan can hear Bettman yelling, and then the louder, more bone-rattling sound of Puck shrieking. It's a high-pitched sound that makes Ryan's skin crawl, goosebumps popping up on his forearms, and he hears someone on Connor's other side make a low, distressed sound in reply. Ryan doesn't make a sound, though, can't turn away or interrupt. He's not even sure he takes a breath until the gods lower their hands, one by one, until Howe closes his hand into a fist and the light abruptly cuts out.

"Well," Connor says into the quiet that follows. "That was a lot more dramatic than it was last time."

Stromer laughs weakly. "Yeah, I'm fine with that."

Ryan stands as people start moving and talking around him. He's not sure where he's going until he's opening the penalty box door, and by that point he's got a bunch of people following him, so he keeps going. He stops a meter from Howe, not sure what he's going to say.

Nate, however, doesn't have that problem at all. "Thank you," he says, shouldering past Ryan and holding out his hand. "That was… one hell of a game, Mr. Howe."

"Sure was," Howe says, smiling easily and shaking Nate's hand. "Thanks for calling on us. It's good to get some ice under you every now and again."

"Especially at his age," Barilko jokes, skating over and grinning. He jerks his head back at Howe, whose hair is thinning and graying before Ryan's eyes, face wrinkling until he's how Ryan remembers him, more a wisp of a man than the hockey player he'd just been.

"We can't all be twenty-four forever," Howe says, rolling his eyes at Barilko, who laughs.

"Guess it is time for me to shove off again, though," Barilko says. "That's my thing, I guess. I score an all-important goal, and then..." He's fading as he says it, and by the time he's done talking there's just enough left for Ryan to see him smile and wave before he's gone.

The rest of them make their goodbyes and fade in the same manner until it's just Howe standing there, looking over the group gathered on the ice. "You've all done so well," he says, smiling a lot like Ryan's grandfather does when he's especially proud of something Ryan or his brother has done. "I hope not to see any of you again for a long, long time, but if you need me, you know who to call."

Gretzky steps forward and stands in front of Howe. "Anything you want me to say to the kids?" he asks softly.

"I'm proud of them, always," Howe says, smiling. "Good to see you back to yourself, Gretz. Keep a tighter hold on that soul this time, eh?"

"I'll do my best," Gretzky promises, laughing a little, and then Howe smiles and waves, fading just as the others had done before him.

There's a moment of quiet after he fades, and Ryan notices with a bit of a start that the rest of the audience is gone, as well. It's just the group of humans now, standing in a rapidly-fading rink in some sort of melted desert hellscape.

Well, humans and one tiny dragon, which Ryan's reminded of as Dorito cracks a yawn that seems to echo around them, a huff of smoke rising from where he's perched on Jordan's shoulder.

"Well," Gretzky says as the tension breaks, "I'm pretty beat, too. I think we should all head home, what do you say?"

There's a chorus of cheers, and Ryan smiles. Home sounds really, really nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stompin' tom connors wrote "[the hockey song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTltzXeutJg)." if you've ever seen one of those sportsnet hometown hockey broadcasts, chances are good you've heard someone sing-yelling this in the background, even if you haven't heard the actual song. please watch this video even if you know the song, as it's recreated with legos, and it's the cutest thing.


	40. Epilogue: Nail Yakupov

It's sort of weird, Nail thinks as he touches down before his first training camp with the Avalanche. He's been in many places with many teams; he's thought he'd have to leave the NHL, thought that the he'd have to give up his dream, only to find out that he was saved at the cost of a teammate, a friend. He'd been glad for the trade out of Edmonton, even if St. Louis hadn't ever felt like the right place for him.

But this, he thinks. This will be a good place.

Moving on and moving forward aren't always bad things, even if they don't seem to be the best when they happen. Nail had spoken with Jordan just yesterday, watching with amusement as he tried to play fetch with his and Taylor's little dragon. Dorito hadn't been very interested in actually fetching anything; he'd been far happier chasing down the bits of stick that Jordan was throwing and then setting them on fire. Jordan had sighed and said something about him getting it out now so he doesn't try to set the sofa on fire again; Nail supposes that's what you get when you have a dragon. Jordan had seemed happy, though, happier than Nail can remember him being in a long time.

He's spoken to some of the other guys; he'd shown up with no explanation and left right after everything had ended. It had been hard to get on the plane to Denver, but somehow harder to leave, and he'd wanted to explain himself to some people, to let Taylor know why he'd flown there in the first place, to let MacKinnon know that he wouldn't fly away like that mid-season. Everyone had been understanding, and it's not that Nail had expected outright hostility, but he's got… something that feels like hope, he thinks.

He calls Connor when he arrives at his hotel. It's not that he's been putting off talking to him, but something about talking to his old captain before meeting with his new one seems fitting in a way Nail can't describe.

"Hey," Connor says, smiling brightly when he answers the FaceTime call. He's standing in a room with an arched doorway that Nail doesn't recognise, and there are boxes in the next room that Nail can just make out. He and Ryan were moving, Nail remembers. Somewhere that's their own, without any of the baggage that Ryan's old place had held. It's a season for new starts, Nail supposes.

"Hi," Nail says, smiling back. "How is Edmonton?"

"Good," Connor says. "We're still unpacking and it's kind of crazy right now, but everything's good." He laughs a little. "Ryan doesn't want to hire a service to unpack. Part of me gets it, but the rest of me thinks we're gonna be living out of boxes until the All-Star break."

"As if you won't be there," Nail teases.

"Oh, sure," Connor says, not missing a beat. "But it'll give Ryan something to do while I'm away."

Nail laughs and Connor beams at him. It's really great to see; Nail knows he's under a lot of pressure, him and Ryan both, but they both seem to be doing well. They're rebuilding a lot more than a winning team in Edmonton, and Nail can't honestly think of anyone more suited to the task than the tag-team force of Connor and Ryan.

"How's Denver?" Connor asks.

"I just landed," Nail responds, shrugging a little. "So far, so good. It's going to take some time to adjust to the drive from the airport, I think."

"You'll get used to it," Connor says, endless confidence in those he cares about almost pouring out of him. "Oh, hey, speaking of getting used to it: Gretzky is still all… soul-ified."

"That's great," Nail says, smiling. They'd all been a little worried as they'd left Puck's dimension; Gretzky had seemed fine, but there was no way to tell if his soul would stick, or if there would be any repercussions. "He's doing well? Adjusting?"

"He called me to tell me his daughter cried," Connor says, face a little awed, a little confused. "He knew who she was. He called her to talk, and she cried a lot."

"I bet," Nail comments. He thinks of his own parents, of Alina. He would react the same way if one of them forgot him for any length of time and then suddenly remembered.

"Anyway," Connor continues. "We went to Daly with all of the stuff we collected. Hallsy and Ebs left a big folder with Hallsy's mom, just in case, and Dylan had the recording of Bettman's little speech."

"How did it go?" Nail asks.

"I mean," Connor says, making a face. "He yelled a lot, then asked if we were sure, and _then_ swore some kind of magical oath with Ryan and Ebs that he wouldn't ever do anything to cause harm to a team in the League."

"So we're safe as long as Daly is Commissioner," Nail says, relief swooping hard in his stomach.

"And after," Connor promises. "There was something in there about making sure future commissioners would have to make the same promise. Ryan has all the details, if you want them."

"Please," Nail says. "I trust you, but…"

Connor smiles at him, something gentle in it, and Nail suddenly fiercely misses him even if he's glad he's moving on from his time in Edmonton. "It's fine," he says. "I get wanting a little extra peace of mind after everything. I'll have him call you later; he's at the store getting nails, because one of the shelves in the kitchen is wobbly, and he's determined to fix it on his own."

"I'm happy for you guys," Nail says, smiling. "I'm actually going to meet some of the guys this afternoon, so ask him to text first?"

"Will do," Connor promises. "And hey, Yak, I don't know everybody there, but I _do_ know Landy and Mack pretty well. They're good guys."

"Thanks, Davo," Nail says, smiling wider. "I think I'm going to like it here."

"You will," Connor says, confidence clear in his voice. "Enjoy your team time. I'll talk to you later."

"Good luck with the shelves," Nail says, laughing as Connor rolls his eyes and hangs up.

It doesn't take him long to get ready; Gabe had told him a few days ago that it was going to be casual, just a few of the guys, no family. Nail rinses the plane smell off in the shower, then throws on a pair of jeans and one of the Avs-branded shirts they'd sent him, calls it good enough, and heads out.

He's not sure why they're meeting at the rink, honestly. These kinds of things are usually held at someone's house, burgers and beer and the nutritionists looking the other way, but Nail loves everything connected to hockey too much to really question it. He doesn't know his new captain well, not yet, but he trusts Gabe enough to just drive to the Pepsi Center without questioning him.

Nate smiles and waves as Nail walks in. "Hey, new guy!"

Nail laughs. "Hi, Mack. Who else is coming?"

"Landy, Tyson, smaller Tyson," Nate says. "Maybe EJ, I'm not sure. And in case he tries to lie to you, please remember that 'smaller Tyson' is definitely Barrie."

"I will remember," Nail promises, easing into a stall that has his name on it. There's no gear here, not this far before the season truly starts, but it doesn't take much imagination to see bags in every corner, gloves and jerseys and pads hanging from the hooks, skates tucked into guards and pushed beneath the benches.

He has a sudden thought. "Can we… see? Where everything was?"

"Yeah," Nate says, nodding slightly. "D'you have your skates in your car? If not, we can find you a pair, I'm sure." Nail throws him a look and Nate laughs, holding his hands up. "I'll be here. Go get your gear."

It doesn't take long for Nail to jog back out to his car and grab his gear bag. It's not so much that he remembered to bring it as that he hadn't taken it out of his car at the hotel, and he's glad about that decision now. By the time he makes it back in, both Tyson Barrie and Tyson Jost are in the locker room apparently mid-argument. It breaks off as Nail walks in, but he doesn't feel like it's malicious. This is mostly because Barrie walks over immediately, sticking his hand out and smiling. "Hi! I'm Better Tyson. Don't listen to Josty; he's practically an infant. Words just don't make sense when they fall out of his mouth."

"Don't listen to Smaller Tyson," Josty says, rolling his eyes. "I'm absolutely the better Tyson."

Nail cuts his eyes from one of them to the other; there's no way Josty is more than an inch taller than Barrie, but Nail's very familiar with the way locker rooms work. He throws his arm over Barrie's shoulders, waiting until Barrie shoots Josty a smug look before saying, "Don't worry, Littler Tyson. I'll make sure Big Tyson doesn't say anything too mean."

"Hey!" Barrie, exclaims, throwing Nail's arm off and dancing away as Nate and Josty both break into laughter. Barrie gives Nail a tiny, approving grin. "Already picking on me, Yak?"

Nail spreads his hands in front of him. "You made it too easy."

"Worst," Barrie complains, turning to Nate. "Can't we get a _nice_ new teammate for once?"

"It's your charming personality, Brutes," Nate says, and it's easy to banter with them from there, to change into sweatpants and lace up his skates as Gabe and Erik Johnson arrive and get ready, too. It's not long before they're all ready to go out onto the ice, and Nail's suddenly a little nervous, a little fearful that he'll see the ice and know that it's all been for nothing, that there will be a curse or a demon or a bad-luck spell waiting to torture him again.

Gabe touches him on the shoulder, pulling Nail from his thoughts. "It's fine," he says quietly. "I've already checked. Everything's good."

Nail's hard-wired to respond to being captained, even if it feels as transparent as Gabe is making it. He smiles a little and nods. "Let's go, then."

Gabe claps him on the shoulder and steps back. "When you're ready."

Nail's as ready as he's going to be, and with each step he takes down the tunnel towards the ice, he gets more and more confident. Puck is gone, never to return. There is no curse here. There's only clean, fresh ice, and a team that believes he can help, and a new season stretching out ahead of him.

Yes, Nail decides as he steps onto the ice. Denver will be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... here we are. the end.
> 
> here's a fun fact about this series for you: i never intended to write it. when i wrote "burn your kingdom down" last summer, i honestly thought it would be a one-and-done. i didn't go into it planning to write a sequel, let alone an entire series, but the feedback i got on the first story—all of the comments, questions, and enthusiasm—convinced me to write the sequel, and by about a third of the way through "sweet dreams and flying machines," i knew that i wanted to keep going, to get to the ending that i'm just now finishing up. it's been a long, wild ride, and i want to thank everyone who has commented on any of the stories in the series. you're what convinced me to write them. your feedback is always so, so appreciated, and it really does matter. <3
> 
> i owe a lot of thanks to ari, S., and J. for all of their help, encouragement, and excitement throughout this entire series, but for this story in particular. it's been a long, long ride, and they were all there for the entire thing. from beta reading to telling me that things didn't work how i meant to yelling my name at top volume when i managed to pull something off, their help was absolutely invaluable. it's amazing how beta comments like "get out i hate you" can be so inspiring. <3 <3
> 
> i do plan to come back to this universe; i have a few side stories planned out that just didn't fit into the main canon of the story (PK's story, the gabe and skinner story that i kept hinting at but never told, taylor crosby and amanda kessel's story, and the Bad End hallsy/ebs story, to name the ones i'm sure of right now). they will be coming, but not soon. i need to work on some other things for a while, because while i love this universe wholeheartedly, i really need a break from all the demons. :)
> 
> thanks to everyone who made it to the end! i appreciate it more than i can ever express. <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> [follow me on tumblr](http://somehowunbroken.tumblr.com)! and please feel free to yell/speculate/glare at me in the comments here :)
> 
> -comment ficlet: [hallsy and ebs in the future](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/130645497)


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